The hut was built of logs, with an inner skin of rough match-boarding, daubed with pitch. It measured seventeen feet by fourteen; but opposite the door four bunks1 — two above and two below — took a yard off the length, and this made the interior exactly square. Each of these bunks had two doors, with brass3 latches4 on the inner side; so that the owner, if he chose, could shut himself up and go to sleep in a sort of cupboard. But as a rule, he closed one of them only — that by his feet. The other swung back, with its brass latch5 showing. The men kept these latches in a high state of polish.
Across the angle of the wall, to the left of the door, and behind it when it opened, three hammocks were slung6, one above another. No one slept in the uppermost.
But the feature of the hut was its fireplace; and this was merely a square hearth7-stone, raised slightly above the floor, in the middle of the room. Upon it, and upon a growing mountain of soft grey ash, the fire burned always. It had no chimney, and so the men lost none of its warmth. The smoke ascended8 steadily9 and spread itself under the blackened beams and roof-boards in dense10 blue layers. But about eighteen inches beneath the spring of the roof there ran a line of small trap-doors with sliding panels, to admit the cold air, and below these the room was almost clear of smoke. A newcomer’s eyes might have smarted, but these men stitched their clothes and read in comfort. To keep the up-draught steady they had plugged every chink and crevice11 in the match-boarding below the trap-doors with moss12, and payed the seams with pitch. The fire they fed from a stack of drift and wreck13 wood piled to the right of the door, and fuel for the fetching strewed14 the frozen beach outside — whole trees notched15 into lengths by lumberers’ axes and washed thither16 from they knew not what continent. But the wreck-wood came from their own ship, the J. R. MacNeill, which had brought them from Dundee.
They were Alexander Williamson, of Dundee, better known as The Gaffer; David Faed, also of Dundee; George Lashman, of Cardiff; Long Ede, of Hayle, in Cornwall; Charles Silchester, otherwise The Snipe, of Ratcliff Highway or thereabouts; and Daniel Cooney, shipped at Tromso six weeks before the wreck, an Irish–American by birth and of no known address.
The Gaffer reclined in his bunk2, reading by the light of a smoky and evil-smelling lamp. He had been mate of the J. R. MacNeill, and was now captain as well as patriarch of the party. He possessed17 three books — the Bible, Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” and an odd volume of “The Turkish Spy.” Just now he was reading “The Turkish Spy.” The lamplight glinted on the rim18 of his spectacles and on the silvery hairs in his beard, the slack of which he had tucked under the edge of his blanket. His lips moved as he read, and now and then he broke off to glance mildly at Faed and the Snipe, who were busy beside the fire with a greasy19 pack of cards; or to listen to the peevish20 grumbling21 of Lashman in the bunk below him. Lashman had taken to his bed six weeks before with scurvy22, and complained incessantly23; and though they hardly knew it, these complaints were wearing his comrades’ nerves to fiddle-strings — doing the mischief24 that cold and bitter hard work and the cruel loneliness had hitherto failed to do. Long Ede lay stretched by the fire in a bundle of skins, reading in his only book, the Bible, open now at the Song of Solomon. Cooney had finished patching a pair of trousers, and rolled himself in his hammock, whence he stared at the roof and the moonlight streaming up there through the little trap-doors and chivying the layers of smoke. Whenever Lashman broke out into fresh quaverings of self-pity, Cooney’s hands opened and shut again, till the nails dug hard into the palm. He groaned27 at length, exasperated28 beyond endurance.
“Oh, stow it, George! Hang it all, man! . . .”
He checked himself, sharp and short: repentant29, and rebuked30 by the silence of the others. They were good seamen31 all, and tender dealing32 with a sick shipmate was part of their code.
Lashman’s voice, more querulous than ever, cut into the silence like a knife —
“That’s it. You’ve thought it for weeks, and now you say it. I’ve knowed it all along. I’m just an encumbrance33, and the sooner you’re shut of me the better, says you. You needn’t to fret34. I’ll be soon out of it; out of it — out there, alongside of Bill —”
“Easy there, matey.” The Snipe glanced over his shoulder and laid his cards face downward. “Here, let me give the bed a shake up. It’ll ease yer.”
“It’ll make me quiet, you mean. Plucky35 deal you care about easin’ me, any of yer!”
“Get out with yer nonsense! Dan didn’ mean it.” The Snipe slipped an arm under the invalid36’s head and rearranged the pillow of skins and gunny-bags.
“He didn’t, didn’t he? Let him say it then . . .”
The Gaffer read on, his lips moving silently. Heaven knows how he had acquired this strayed and stained and filthy37 little demi-octavo with the arms of Saumarez on its book-plate —“The Sixth Volume of Letters writ38 by a Turkish Spy, who liv’d Five-and-Forty Years Undiscovered at Paris: Giving an Impartial39 Account to the Divan40 at Constantinople of the most remarkable41 Transactions of Europe, And discovering several Intrigues42 and Secrets of the Christian43 Courts (especially of that of France),” etc., etc. “Written originally in Arabick. Translated into Italian, and from thence into English by the Translator of the First Volume. The Eleventh Edition. London: Printed for G. Strahan, S. Ballard”— and a score of booksellers —“MDCCXLI.” Heavens knows why he read it; since he understood about one-half, and admired less than one-tenth. The Oriental reflections struck him as mainly blasphemous44. But the Gaffer’s religious belief marked down nine-tenths of mankind for perdition: which perhaps made him tolerant. At any rate, he read on gravely between the puffs45 of his short clay —
“On the 19th of this Moon, the King and the whole Court were present at a Ballet, representing the grandeur46 of the French monarchy47. About the Middle of the Entertainment, there was an Antique Dance perform’d by twelve Masqueraders, in the suppos’d form of Daemons. But before they had advanc’d far in their Dance, they found an Interloper amongst ’em, who by encreasing the Number to thirteen, put them quite out of their Measure: For they practise every Step and Motion beforehand, till they are perfect. Being abash’d therefore at the unavoidable Blunders the thirteenth Antique made them commit, they stood still like Fools, gazing at one another: None daring to unmask, or speak a Word; for that would have put all the Spectators into a Disorder49 and Confusion. Cardinal50 Mazarini (who was the chief Contriver51 of these Entertainments, to divert the King from more serious Thoughts) stood close by the young Monarch48, with the Scheme of the Ballet in his Hand. Knowing therefore that this Dance was to consist but of twelve Antiques, and taking notice that there were actually thirteen, he at first imputed52 it to some Mistake. But, afterwards, when he perceived the Confusion of the Dancers, he made a more narrow Enquiry into the Cause of this Disorder. To be brief, they convinced the Cardinal that it could be no Error of theirs, by a kind of Demonstration53, in that they had but twelve Antique Dresses of that sort, which were made on purpose for this particular Ballet. That which made it seem the greater Mystery was, that when they came behind the Scenes to uncase, and examine the Matter, they found but twelve Antiques, whereas on the Stage there were thirteen . . .”
“Let him say it. Let him say he didn’t mean it, the rotten Irishman!”
Cooney flung a leg wearily over the side of his hammock, jerked himself out, and shuffled54 across to the sick man’s berth55.
“Av coorse I didn’ mane it. It just took me, ye see, lyin’ up yondher and huggin’ me thoughts in this — wilderness56. I swear to ye, George: and ye’ll just wet your throat to show there’s no bad blood, and that ye belave me.” He took up a pannikin from the floor beside the bunk, pulled a hot iron from the fire, and stirred the frozen drink. The invalid turned his shoulder pettishly57. “I didn’t mane it,” Cooney repeated. He set down the pannikin, and shuffled wearily back to his hammock.
The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; at the smoke mounting and the grey ash dropping; at David Faed dealing the cards and licking his thumb between each. Long Ede shifted from one cramped58 elbow to another and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze, murmuring, “Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vines.”
“Full hand,” the Snipe announced.
“Ay.” David Faed rolled the quid in his cheek. The cards were so thumbed and tattered59 that by the backs of them each player guessed pretty shrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night after night; the Snipe shrilly60 blessing61 or cursing his luck, the Scotsman phlegmatic62 as a bolster63.
“Play away, man. What ails25 ye?” he asked.
The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs64 and sat up, stiff and listening.
“Whist! Outside the door . . . .”
All listened. “I hear nothing,” said David, after ten seconds.
“Hush65, man — listen! There, again . . .”
They heard now. Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the door and listened, crouching66, with his ear close to the jamb. The sound resembled breathing — or so he thought for a moment. Then it seemed rather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door — fumbling67 its coating of ice and frozen snow.
Cooney listened. They all listened. Usually, as soon as they stirred from the scorching68 circle of the fire, their breath came from them in clouds. It trickled69 from them now in thin wisps of vapour. They could almost hear the soft grey ash dropping on the hearth.
A log spluttered. Then the invalid’s voice clattered70 in-
“It’s the bears — the bears! They’ve come after Bill, and next it’ll be my turn. I warned you — I told you he wasn’t deep enough. O Lord, have mercy . . . mercy . . .!” He pattered off into a prayer, his voice and teeth chattering71.
“Hush!” commanded the Gaffer gently; and Lashman choked on a sob72.
“It ain’t bears,” Cooney reported, still with his ear to the door. “Leastways . . . we’ve had bears before. The foxes, maybe . . . let me listen.”
Long Ede murmured: “Take us the foxes, the little foxes . . .”
“I believe you’re right,” the Gaffer announced cheerfully. “A bear would sniff73 louder — though there’s no telling. The snow was falling an hour back, and I dessay ’tis pretty thick outside. If ’tis a bear, we don’t want him fooling on the roof, and I misdoubt the drift by the north corner is pretty tall by this time. Is he there still?”
“I felt something then . . . through the chink, here . . . like a warm breath. It’s gone now. Come here, Snipe, and listen.”
“‘Breath,’ eh? Did it smell like bear?”
“I don’t know . . . I didn’t smell nothing, to notice. Here, put your head down, close.”
The Snipe bent74 his head. And at that moment the door shook gently. All stared; and saw the latch move up, up . . . and falteringly75 descend76 on the staple77. They heard the click of it.
The door was secured within by two stout78 bars. Against these there had been no pressure. The men waited in a silence that ached. But the latch was not lifted again.
The Snipe, kneeling, looked up at Cooney. Cooney shivered and looked at David Faed. Long Ede, with his back to the fire, softly shook his feet free of the rugs. His eyes searched for the Gaffer’s face. But the old man had drawn79 back into the gloom of his bunk, and the lamplight shone only on a grey fringe of beard. He saw Long Ede’s look, though, and answered it quietly as ever.
“Take a brace80 of guns aloft, and fetch us a look round. Wait, if there’s a chance of a shot. The trap works. I tried it this afternoon with the small chisel81.”
Long Ede lit his pipe tied down the ear-pieces of his cap, lifted a light ladder off its staples82, and set it against a roof-beam: then, with the guns under his arm, quietly mounted. His head and shoulders wavered and grew vague to sight in the smoke-wreaths. “Heard anything more?” he asked. “Nothing since,” answered the Snipe. With his shoulder Long Ede pushed up the trap. They saw his head framed in a panel of moonlight, with one frosty star above it. He was wriggling83 through. “Pitch him up a sleeping-bag, somebody,” the Gaffer ordered, and Cooney ran with one. “Thank ‘ee, mate,” said Long Ede, and closed the trap.
They heard his feet stealthily crunching84 the frozen stuff across the roof. He was working towards the eaves over-lapping the door. Their breath tightened85. They waited for the explosion of his gun. None came. The crunching began again: it was heard down by the very edge of the eaves. It mounted to the blunt ridge86 overhead; then it ceased.
“He will not have seen aught,” David Faed muttered.
“Listen, you. Listen by the door again.” They talked in whispers. Nothing; there was nothing to be heard. They crept back to the fire, and stood there warming themselves, keeping their eyes on the latch. It did not move. After a while Cooney slipped off to his hammock; Faed to his bunk, alongside Lashman’s. The Gaffer had picked up his book again. The Snipe laid a couple of logs on the blaze, and remained beside it, cowering87, with his arms stretched out as if to embrace it. His shapeless shadow wavered up and down on the bunks behind him; and, across the fire, he still stared at the latch.
Suddenly the sick man’s voice quavered out —
“It’s not him they want — it’s Bill! They’re after Bill, out there! That was Bill trying to get in. . . . Why didn’t yer open? It was Bill, I tell yer!”
At the first word the Snipe had wheeled right-about-face, and stood now, pointing, and shaking like a man with ague.
“Matey . . . for the love of God . . .”
“I won’t hush. There’s something wrong here to-night. I can’t sleep. It’s Bill, I tell yer. See his poor hammock up there shaking . . . .”
Cooney tumbled out with an oath and a thud. “Hush it, you white-livered swine! Hush it, or by —” His hand went behind him to his knife-sheath.
“Dan Cooney”— the Gaffer closed his book and leaned out —“go back to your bed.”
“I won’t, Sir. Not unless —”
“Go back.”
“Flesh and blood —”
“Go back.” And for the third time that night Cooney went back.
The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge88, and addressed the sick man.
“George, I went to Bill’s grave not six hours agone. The snow on it wasn’t even disturbed. Neither beast nor man, but only God, can break up the hard earth he lies under. I tell you that, and you may lay to it. Now go to sleep.”
Long Ede crouched89 on the frozen ridge of the hut, with his feet in the sleeping-bag, his knees drawn up, and the two guns laid across them. The creature, whatever its name, that had tried the door, was nowhere to be seen; but he decided90 to wait a few minutes on the chance of a shot; that is, until the cold should drive him below. For the moment the clear tingling91 air was doing him good. The truth was Long Ede had begun to be afraid of himself, and the way his mind had been running for the last forty-eight hours upon green fields and visions of spring. As he put it to himself, something inside his head was melting. Biblical texts chattered92 within him like running brooks93, and as they fleeted he could almost smell the blown meadow-scent. “Take us the foxes, the little foxes . . . for our vines have tender grapes . . . A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon . . . Awake, O north wind, and come, thou south . . . blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out . . .” He was light-headed, and he knew it. He must hold out. They were all going mad; were, in fact, three parts crazed already, all except the Gaffer. And the Gaffer relied on him as his right-hand man. One glimpse of the returning sun — one glimpse only — might save them yet.
He gazed out over the frozen hills, and northward94 across the ice-pack. A few streaks95 of pale violet — the ghost of the Aurora96 — fronted the moon. He could see for miles. Bear or fox, no living creature was in sight. But who could tell what might be hiding behind any one of a thousand hummocks97? He listened. He heard the slow grinding of the ice-pack off the beach: only that. “Take us the foxes, the little foxes. . .”
This would never do. He must climb down and walk briskly, or return to the hut. Maybe there was a bear, after all, behind one of the hummocks, and a shot, or the chance of one, would scatter99 his head clear of these tom-fooling notions. He would have a search round.
What was that, moving . . . on a hummock98, not five hundred yards away? He leaned forward to gaze.
Nothing now: but he had seen something. He lowered himself to the eaves by the north corner, and from the eaves to the drift piled there. The drift was frozen solid, but for a treacherous100 crust of fresh snow. His foot slipped upon this, and down he slid of a heap.
Luckily he had been careful to sling101 the guns tightly at his back. He picked himself up, and unstrapping one, took a step into the bright moon-light to examine the nipples; took two steps: and stood stock-still.
There, before him, on the frozen coat of snow, was a footprint. No: two, three, four — many footprints: prints of a naked human foot: right foot, left foot, both naked, and blood in each print — a little smear102.
It had come, then. He was mad for certain. He saw them: he put his fingers in them; touched the frozen blood. The snow before the door was trodden thick with them — some going, some returning.
“The latch . . . lifted . . .” Suddenly he recalled the figure he had seen moving upon the hummock, and with a groan26 he set his face northward and gave chase. Oh, he was mad for certain! He ran like a madman — floundering, slipping, plunging103 in his clumsy moccasins. “Take us the foxes, the little foxes . . . My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels104 were moved for him . . . I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem . . . I charge you . . . I charge you . . .”
He ran thus for three hundred yards maybe, and then stopped as suddenly as he had started.
His mates — they must not see these footprints, or they would go mad too: mad as he. No, he must cover them up, all within sight of the hut. And tomorrow he would come alone, and cover those farther afield. Slowly he retraced105 his steps. The footprints — those which pointed106 towards the hut and those which pointed away from it — lay close together; and he knelt before each, breaking fresh snow over the hollows and carefully hiding the blood. And now a great happiness filled his heart; interrupted once or twice as he worked by a feeling that someone was following and watching him. Once he turned northwards and gazed, making a telescope of his hands. He saw nothing, and fell again to his long task.
Within the hut the sick man cried softly to himself. Faed, the Snipe, and Cooney slept uneasily, and muttered in their dreams. The Gaffer lay awake, thinking. After Bill, George Lashman; and after George? . . . Who next? And who would be the last — the unburied one? The men were weakening fast; their wits and courage coming down at the end with a rush. Faed and Long Ede were the only two to be depended on for a day. The Gaffer liked Long Ede, who was a religious man. Indeed he had a growing suspicion that Long Ede, in spite of some amiable107 laxities of belief, was numbered among the Elect: or might be, if interceded108 for. The Gaffer began to intercede109 for him silently; but experience had taught him that such “wrestlings,” to be effective, must be noisy, and he dropped off to sleep with a sense of failure . . .
The Snipe stretched himself, yawned, and awoke. It was seven in the morning: time to prepare a cup of tea. He tossed an armful of logs on the fire, and the noise awoke the Gaffer, who at once inquired for Long Ede. He had not returned. “Go you up to the roof. The lad must be frozen.” The Snipe climbed the ladder, pushed open the trap, and came back, reporting that Long Ede was nowhere to be seen. The old man slipped a jumper over his suits of clothing — already three deep — reached for a gun, and moved to the door. “Take a cup of something warm to fortify,” the Snipe advised. “The kettle won’t be five minutes boiling.” But the Gaffer pushed up the heavy bolts and dragged the door open.
“What in the! . . .Here, bear a hand, lads!”
Long Ede lay prone110 before the threshold, his out-stretched hands almost touching111 it, his moccasins already covered out of sight by the powdery snow which ran and trickled incessantly — trickled between his long, dishevelled locks, and over the back of his gloves, and ran in a thin stream past the Gaffer’s feet.
They carried him in and laid him on a heap of skins by the fire. They forced rum between his clenched112 teeth and beat his hands and feet, and kneaded and rubbed him. A sigh fluttered on his lips: something between a sigh and a smile, half seen, half heard. His eyes opened, and his comrades saw that it was really a smile.
“Wot cheer, mate?” It was the Snipe who asked.
“I— I seen . . .” The voice broke off, but he was smiling still.
What had he seen? Not the sun, surely! By the Gaffer’s reckoning the sun would not be due for a week or two yet: how many weeks he could not say precisely113, and sometimes he was glad enough that he did not know.
They forced him to drink a couple of spoonfuls of rum, and wrapped him up warmly. Each man contributed some of his own bedding. Then the Gaffer called to morning prayers, and the three sound men dropped on their knees with him. Now, whether by reason of their joy at Long Ede’s recovery, or because the old man was in splendid voice, they felt their hearts uplifted that morning with a cheerfulness they had not known for months. Long Ede lay and listened dreamily while the passion of the Gaffer’s thanksgiving shook the hut. His gaze wandered over their bowed forms —“The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney, the Snipe, and — and George Lashman in his bunk, of course — and me.” But, then, who was the seventh? He began to count. “There’s myself — Lashman, in his bunk — David Faed, the Gaffer, the Snipe, Dan Cooney . . . One, two, three, four — well, but that made seven. Then who was the seventh? Was it George who had crawled out of bed and was kneeling there? Decidedly there were five kneeling. No: there was George, plain enough, in his berth, and not able to move. Then who was the stranger? Wrong again: there was no stranger. He knew all these men — they were his mates. Was it — Bill? No, Bill was dead and buried: none of these was Bill, or like Bill. Try again — One, two, three, four, five — and us two sick men, seven. The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney — have I counted Dan twice? No, that’s Dan, yonder to the right, and only one of him. Five men kneeling, and two on their backs: that makes seven every time. Dear God — suppose —”
The Gaffer ceased, and in the act of rising from his knees, caught sight of Long Ede’s face. While the others fetched their breakfast-cans, he stepped over, and bent and whispered —
“Tell me. Ye’ve seen what?”
“Seen?” Long Ede echoed.
“Ay, seen what? Speak low — was it the sun?”
“The s —” But this time the echo died on his lips, and his face grew full of awe114 uncomprehending. It frightened the Gaffer.
“Ye’ll be the better of a snatch of sleep,” said he; and was turning to go, when Long Ede stirred a hand under the edge of his rugs.
“Seven . . . count . . .” he whispered.
“Lord have mercy upon us!” the Gaffer muttered to his beard as he moved away. “Long Ede; gone crazed!”
And yet, though an hour or two ago this had been the worst that could befall, the Gaffer felt unusually cheerful. As for the others, they were like different men, all that day and through the three days that followed. Even Lashman ceased to complain, and, unless their eyes played them a trick, had taken a turn for the better. “I declare, if I don’t feel like pitching to sing!” the Snipe announced on the second evening, as much to his own wonder as to theirs. “Then why in thunder don’t you strike up?” answered Dan Cooney, and fetched his concertina. The Snipe struck up, then and there —“Villikins and his Dinah”! What is more, the Gaffer looked up from his “Paradise Lost,” and joined in the chorus.
By the end of the second day, Long Ede was up and active again. He went about with a dazed look in his eyes. He was counting, counting to himself, always counting. The Gaffer watched him furtively115.
Since his recovery, though his lips moved frequently, Long Ede had scarcely uttered a word. But towards noon on the fourth day he said an extraordinary thing.
“There’s that sleeping-bag I took with me the other night. I wonder if ’tis on the roof still. It will be froze pretty stiff by this. You might nip up and see, Snipe, and”— he paused —“if you find it, stow it up yonder on Bill’s hammock.”
The Gaffer opened his mouth, but shut it again without speaking. The Snipe went up the ladder.
A minute passed; and then they heard a cry from the roof — a cry that fetched them all trembling, choking, weeping, cheering, to the foot of the ladder.
“Boys! boys! — the Sun!”
Months later — it was June, and even George Lashman had recovered his strength — the Snipe came running with news of the whaling fleet. And on the beach, as they watched the vessels116 come to anchor, Long Ede told the Gaffer his story. “It was a hall — a hallu — what d’ye call it, I reckon. I was crazed, eh?” The Gaffer’s eyes wandered from a brambling hopping117 about the lichen-covered boulders118, and away to the sea-fowl wheeling above the ships: and then came into his mind a tale he had read once in “The Turkish Spy.” “I wouldn’t say just that,” he answered slowly.
“Anyway,” said Long Ede, “I believe the Lord sent a miracle to us to save us all.”
“I wouldn’t say just that, either,” the Gaffer objected. “I doubt it was meant just for you and me, and the rest were presairved, as you might say incidentally.”
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1
bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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latches
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| n.（门窗的）门闩( latch的名词复数 )；碰锁v.理解( latch的第三人称单数 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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19
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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20
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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21
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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22
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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23
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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24
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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26
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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30
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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32
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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33
encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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34
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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35
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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36
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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37
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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38
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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39
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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40
divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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41
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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42
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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43
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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44
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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45
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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46
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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47
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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48
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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49
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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50
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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51
contriver
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| 发明者，创制者，筹划者 | |
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52
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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54
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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56
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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pettishly
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58
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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59
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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60
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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61
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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62
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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63
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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64
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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65
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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66
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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67
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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68
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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69
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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70
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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72
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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73
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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74
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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75
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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76
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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77
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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81
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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82
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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84
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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85
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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86
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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87
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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88
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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89
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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91
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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92
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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93
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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94
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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95
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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96
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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97
hummocks
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| n.小丘，岗( hummock的名词复数 ) | |
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98
hummock
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| n.小丘 | |
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99
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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100
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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101
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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102
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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103
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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104
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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105
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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106
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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108
interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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109
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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110
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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111
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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112
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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114
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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115
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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116
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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117
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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118
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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