There was one shop in the town of Mufulira which was widely known for its racial discrimination. It was a drugstore .While Europeans were served at the counter ,a long line of Africans queued at the window and often not only were kept waiting but were treated rudely by the shop assistants .One day I was determined to make a public protest （抗议）against this kind of thing ,and many of the schoolboys in my class followed me to the store.

       I simply went into the shop and asked the manager politely for some medicine. As soon as he saw me standing in the place where only European customers were allowed to stand ,he shouted at me in a bastard （怪声怪气的）language which is only used by a boss when speaking to his servants .I stood at the counter and politely requested in proper English that I should be served .The manager became angry and said , “Even if you stand till Christmas ,I will never serve you .”

       I went to the District Commissioner’s office .Fortunately ,he was out ,for he was one of the old school; however ,I saw a young District Officer who was a friend of mine .He was very concerned to hear my story and told me that all I had to do was come to him personally and he would buy my medicine for me .I protested that that was not good enough .I asked him to accompany me back to the store and to make a protest to the manager .This he did ,and I well remember him saying to the manager , “Here is Mr. Kaunda who is a responsible member of the Urban Advisory Council, and you treat him like a common servant .” The manager of the drugstore apologized and said , “If only he had introduced himself and explained who he was ,then ,of course ,I should have given him proper service.”

       I had to explain once again that he had missed my point .Why should I have to introduce myself every time I went into a store…any more than I should have to buy my medicine by going to a European friend ? I want to prove that any man of any color ,whatever his position ,should have the right to go into any shop and buy what he wanted .After all, the money which I paid across the counter was exactly the same money as was paid by a European customer.

The writer was ,at the time of the story ,      .

       A．a European officer   B．an African servant

       C．a drugstore assistant D．a black school teacher

The manager of the drugstore shouted at the writer in dirty words because      .

       A．he could not speak English in a polite way

       B．he thought the writer couldn’t understand English

       C．that was the language he used when speaking to Africans

       D．that was the only language he could speak when he was angry

In paragraph 3, the underlined sentence “he was one of the old school” means      .

       A．he stuck to those old racial ideas

       B．he graduated from an old white school

       C．he was in charge of an old black school

Why didn’t the writer wait at the window of the drugstore like other Africans?

       A．He believed his white friends would help him out .

       B．He wanted to fight for equal rights of all black people.

       C．He thought he was educated and should be treated differently.

       D．He thought ,being an important person ,he should not be kept waiting.

There was a time when I thought my dad didn’t know a thing about being a good father. I couldn’t   31 him ever saying the words “I love you.” It seems to me his only purpose in life was to say “__32_  ” to anywhere I wanted to go and anything I wanted to do, including getting a   33 .  Some parents bought their kids cars when they got their driver’s licenses. Not my dad ---- he said that I’d have to get a job and buy my own.
So that is what I did. I got a job at a very nice restaurant and   34  every penny I could and   35 I had enough to buy my car, I did! The day I brought that car home, my dad was the first one I wanted to   36  to. “Look, dad, a car of my own. If you ever want a ride, I’ll only   37 you five dollars.” I offered with a smile.
“I see,” was all he said.
One day, there was something wrong with my father’s truck. So he needed a   38 to work. . The sun wasn’t even up when we left the house,   39  it was already getting warm out. It was going to be a(n)   40 day. As I dropped my dad off, I   41  him, dressed in his work clothes, getting his   42  from the trunk of my car. Watching his sun-weathered face, and even from a distance I could tell there were   43  lines than I ever remembered being there before. I realized how hard my dad works for the family. My father is a cement finisher. In that instant, it   44 to me that he actually got down on his hands and knees to sweat over hot concrete to make a living for his family. And he did this day in and day out,   45  hot it got. Never, not once, had I heard him   46  about it. To him we were “worth” it. And never once did he “charge” us for it.
When he closed the trunk, his tools set off to the side, he walked over to my window to   47  me five dollars. I rolled down the window and said “Good-bye, dad. Keep your five dollars. It’s my   48. Don’t work too hard. I love you.” His   49 met mine, then glanced away in the direction of his waiting tools, he   50  his throat and said, “Oh, and… me, too.”

There was a time when I thought my dad didn’t know a thing about being a good father. I couldn’t   36  him ever saying the words “I love you.” It seems to me his only purpose in life was to say “  37  ” to anywhere I wanted to go and anything I wanted to do, including getting a   38 . Some parents bought their kids cars when they got their driver’s licenses. Not my dad ---- he said that I’d have to get a job and buy my own.
So that is what I did. I got a job at a very nice restaurant and   39  every penny I could and   40  I had enough to buy my car, I did! The day I brought that car home, my dad was the first one I wanted to   41  to. “Look, dad, a car of my own. If you ever want a ride, I’ll only   42 you five dollars.” I offered with a smile.
“I see,” was all he said.
One day, there was something wrong with my father’s truck. So he needed a   43  to work. The sun wasn’t even up when we left the house ,   44  it was already getting warm out. It was going to be a(n)   45  day. As I dropped my dad off, I   46  him, dressed in his work clothes, getting his   47  from the truck (车尾箱) of my car. Watching his sun-weathered face, and even from a distance I could tell there were   48  lines than I ever remembered being there before. I realized how hard my dad works for the family. My father is a cement finisher(水泥修整工).
In that instant, it  49  to me that he actually got down on his hands and knees to sweat over hot concrete to make a living for his family. And he did this day in and day out,   50  hot it got. Never, not once, had I hear him   51  about it. To him we were “worth” it. And never once did he “charge” us for it.
When he closed the trunk, his tools set off to the side, he walked over to my window to   52  me five dollars. I rolled down the window and said “Good-bye, dad. Keep your five dollars. It’s my   53 . Don’t work too hard. I love you.”
His   54  met mine, then glanced away in the direction of his waiting tools, he   55  his throat and said, “Oh, and… me, too.”

There was one shop in the town of Mufulira which was widely known for its racial discrimination. It was a drugstore .While Europeans were served at the counter ,a long line of Africans queued at the window and often not only were kept waiting but were treated rudely by the shop assistants .One day I was determined to make a public protest （抗议）against this kind of thing ,and many of the schoolboys in my class followed me to the store.
I simply went into the shop and asked the manager politely for some medicine. As soon as he saw me standing in the place where only European customers were allowed to stand ,he shouted at me in a bastard （怪声怪气的）language which is only used by a boss when speaking to his servants .I stood at the counter and politely requested in proper English that I should be served .The manager became angry and said , “Even if you stand till Christmas ,I will never serve you .”
I went to the District Commissioner’s office .Fortunately ,he was out ,for he was one of the old school; however ,I saw a young District Officer who was a friend of mine .He was very concerned to hear my story and told me that all I had to do was come to him personally and he would buy my medicine for me .I protested that that was not good enough .I asked him to accompany me back to the store and to make a protest to the manager .This he did ,and I well remember him saying to the manager , “Here is Mr. Kaunda who is a responsible member of the Urban Advisory Council, and you treat him like a common servant .” The manager of the drugstore apologized and said , “If only he had introduced himself and explained who he was ,then ,of course ,I should have given him proper service.”
I had to explain once again that he had missed my point .Why should I have to introduce myself every time I went into a store…any more than I should have to buy my medicine by going to a European friend ? I want to prove that any man of any color ,whatever his position ,should have the right to go into any shop and buy what he wanted .After all, the money which I paid across the counter was exactly the same money as was paid by a European customer.
【小题1】The writer was ,at the time of the story ,     .

There was a time when I thought my dad didn’t know a thing about being a good father. I couldn’t   31 him ever saying the words “I love you.” It seems to me his only purpose in life was to say “__32_  ” to anywhere I wanted to go and anything I wanted to do, including getting a   33 .  Some parents bought their kids cars when they got their driver’s licenses. Not my dad ---- he said that I’d have to get a job and buy my own.

So that is what I did. I got a job at a very nice restaurant and   34  every penny I could and   35 I had enough to buy my car, I did! The day I brought that car home, my dad was the first one I wanted to   36  to. “Look, dad, a car of my own. If you ever want a ride, I’ll only   37 you five dollars.” I offered with a smile.

“I see,” was all he said.

One day, there was something wrong with my father’s truck. So he needed a   38 to work. . The sun wasn’t even up when we left the house,   39  it was already getting warm out. It was going to be a(n)   40 day. As I dropped my dad off, I   41  him, dressed in his work clothes, getting his   42  from the trunk of my car. Watching his sun-weathered face, and even from a distance I could tell there were   43  lines than I ever remembered being there before. I realized how hard my dad works for the family. My father is a cement finisher. In that instant, it   44 to me that he actually got down on his hands and knees to sweat over hot concrete to make a living for his family. And he did this day in and day out,   45  hot it got. Never, not once, had I heard him   46  about it. To him we were “worth” it. And never once did he “charge” us for it.

When he closed the trunk, his tools set off to the side, he walked over to my window to   47  me five dollars. I rolled down the window and said “Good-bye, dad. Keep your five dollars. It’s my   48. Don’t work too hard. I love you.” His   49 met mine, then glanced away in the direction of his waiting tools, he   50  his throat and said, “Oh, and… me, too.”