Test Prep SAT Test - Scholastic Assessment Test: Reading, Writing and Language, Mathematics Exam
Page: 3 / 186
Total 930 questions
Question #11 (Topic: Single Topic)
But the Dust-Bin was going down then, and your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view. Your mother's object in those visits was of a house-
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
What is being inferred by `your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view` at the starting of 1st paragraph?
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
What is being inferred by `your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view` at the starting of 1st paragraph?
A. He rarely appropriated anything other than liquids.
B. He was unable to procure anything of a substantial nature.
C. He was only allowed to consume liquids as opposed to solids.
D. He was not inclined to food only alcohol.
E. He was on a restricted diet comprised of liquids only.
Answer: D
Question #12 (Topic: Single Topic)
But the Dust-Bin was going down then, and your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view. Your mother's object in those visits was of a house-
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
The discussion of visits to father's compartment in 1st paragraph suggests that:
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
The discussion of visits to father's compartment in 1st paragraph suggests that:
A. the family bonds were strong.
B. suitable income made it possible to maintain two well-furnished homes.
C. there was little romance between husband and wife.
D. there was not the intention of hiding a familial relationship.
E. the family often met to perform routine tasks as a family.
Answer: C
Question #13 (Topic: Single Topic)
But the Dust-Bin was going down then, and your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view. Your mother's object in those visits was of a house-
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
Overall, what is the author referring when he writes `Perhaps the attraction of this mystery`?
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
Overall, what is the author referring when he writes `Perhaps the attraction of this mystery`?
A. the idea that no one was to know his fatherג€™s name
B. the fact that no one knew that his father was married and apparently werenג€™t allowed to
C. the situation of only visiting his father instead of living together with approval from the wife
D. the entire secrecy of the lifestyle of his family notwithstanding the compartment
E. the compartment his father kept and lived alone in even though it didnג€™t seem like much
Answer: D
Question #14 (Topic: Single Topic)
But the Dust-Bin was going down then, and your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view. Your mother's object in those visits was of a house-
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
What purpose was served by the detailed description of the compartment (1st paragraph)?
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
What purpose was served by the detailed description of the compartment (1st paragraph)?
A. informs the reader of a level of economic expectation for a waiter at this time
B. provides a window into the lifestyle the father is able to provide his family
C. provides a rationale for the wife to come over and perform house-keeping
D. explains why father would not want his real identity known to others
E. allows the reader to understand more fully the mystery surrounding the desire to become a waiter
Answer: A
Question #15 (Topic: Single Topic)
But the Dust-Bin was going down then, and your father took but little, excepting from a liquid point of view. Your mother's object in those visits was of a house-
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
All of the following may indicate why the author states the father coming home is an `act of Madness` in 1st paragraph EXCEPT:
keeping character, and you was set on to whistle your father out. Sometimes he came out, but generally not. Come or not come, however, all that part of his
existence which was unconnected with open Waitering was kept a close secret, and was acknowledged by your mother to be a close secret, and you and your
mother flitted about the court, close secrets both of you, and would scarcely have confessed under torture that you know your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name, though he was never known by any other), or that he had kith or kin or chick or child. Perhaps the attraction of this
mystery, combined with your father's having a damp compartment, to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at the Dust Bin, a sort of a cellar compartment, with a sink in
it, and a smell, and a plate-rack, and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't match each other or anything else, and no daylight, caused your young mind to
feel convinced that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you felt
convinced that you was born to the Waitering. At this stage of your career, what was your feelings one day when your father came home to your mother in open
broad daylight, of itself an act of Madness on the part of a Waiter, and took to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's bed), with the statement that his eyes
were devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your father expired, after repeating at intervals for a day and a night, when gleams of reason and old business
fitfully illuminated his being, `Two and two is five. And three is sixpence.` Interred in the parochial department of the neighbouring churchyard, and accompanied to
the grave by as many Waiters of long standing as could spare the morning time from their soiled glasses (namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in a white
neckankecher, and you was took on from motives of benevolence at The George and Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here, supporting nature on what you found
in the plates (which was as it happened, and but too often thoughtlessly, immersed in mustard), and on what you found in the glasses (which rarely went beyond
driblets and lemon), by night you dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed awake, and by day was set to polishing every individual article in the coffee-room.
Your couch being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart under the smart tie of your white neck ankecher (or
correctly speaking lower down and more to the left), you picked up the rudiments of knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops, and by calling plate-
washer, and gradually elevating your mind with chalk on the back of the corner-box partition, until such time as you used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood, and to be the Waiter that you find yourself.
I could wish here to offer a few respectful words on behalf of the calling so long the calling of myself and family, and the public interest in which is but too often
very limited. We are not generally understood. No, we are not. Allowance enough is not made for us. For, say that we ever show a little drooping listlessness of
spirits, or what might be termed indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what would your own state of mind be, if you was one of an enormous family every
member of which except you was always greedy, and in a hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly replete with animal food at the slack hours of one in the
day and again at nine p.m., and that the repleter you was, the more voracious all your fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself that it was your business, when
your digestion was well on, to take a personal interest and sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a hundred),
whose imaginations was given up to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter, and abandoned to questioning you about cuts of this, and dishes of that, each of
'em going on as if him and you and the bill of fare was alone in the world.
All of the following may indicate why the author states the father coming home is an `act of Madness` in 1st paragraph EXCEPT:
A. it is broad daylight and not a visit under the shroud of darkness.
B. it is during the day when he should be working.
C. he risks exposing that he has a wife and family.
D. it is likely someone will find out who he really is.
E. it is feasible that he will cause the son to lose his job.
Answer: E
