Though it was so late as eight bells of the evening, Pete, the tough factory hand, and Tim, the down-and-out hatter, were still playing seven-up at the dirty fo’c’sle table, while McGarver, under-boss of the Morris cattle gang, lay in his berth2, heavily studying the game and blowing sulphurous fumes3 of Lunch Pail Plug Cut tobacco up toward Wrennie.
Pete, the tough, was very evil. He sneered4. He stole. He bullied5. He was a drunkard and a person without cleanliness of speech. Tim, the hatter, was a loud-talking weakling, under Pete’s domination. Tim wore a dirty rubber collar without a tie, and his soul was like his neckware.
McGarver, the under-boss, was a good shepherd among the men, though he had recently lost the head foremanship by a spree complicated with language and violence. He looked like one of the Merian bulls, with broad short neck and short curly hair above a thick-skinned deeply wrinkled low forehead. He never undressed, but was always seen, as now, in heavy shoes and blue-gray woolen6 socks tucked over the bottoms of his overalls7. He was gruff and kind and tyrannical and honest.
Wrennie shook and drew his breath sharply as the foghorn8 yawped out its “Whawn-n-n-n” again, reminding him that they were still in the Bank fog; that at any moment they were likely to be stunned9 by a heart-stopping crash as some liner’s bow burst through the fo’c’sle’s walls in a collision. Bow-plates buckling10 in and shredding11, the in-thrust of an enormous black bow, water flooding in, cries and — However, the horn did at least show that They were awake up there on the bridge to steer12 him through the fog; and weren’t They experienced seamen13? Hadn’t They made this trip ever so many times and never got killed? Wouldn’t They take all sorts of pains on Their own account as well as on his?
But — just the same, would he really ever get to England alive? And if he did, would he have to go on holding his breath in terror for nine more days? Would the fo’c’sle always keep heaving up — up — up, like this, then down — down — down, as though it were going to sink?
“How do yuh like de fog-horn, Wrennie?”
Pete, the tough, spit the question up at him from a corner of his mouth. “Hope we don’t run into no ships.”
He winked14 at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took the cue and mourned:
“I’m kinda afraid we’re going to, ain’t you, Pete? The mate was telling me he was scared we would.”
“Sures’ t’ing you know. Hey, Wrennie, wait till youse have to beat it down-stairs and tie up a bull in a storm. Hully gee15! Youse’ll last quick on de game, Birdie!”
“Oh, shut up,” snapped Wrennie’s friend Morton.
But Morton was seasick16; and Pete, not heeding17 him, outlined other dangers which he was happily sure were threatening them. Wrennie shivered to hear that the “grub ‘d git worse.” He writhed18 under Pete’s loud questions about his loss, in some cattle-pen, of the gray-and-scarlet sweater-jacket which he had proudly and gaily20 purchased in New York for his work on the ship. And the card-players assured him that his suit-case, which he had intrusted to the Croac ship’s carpenter, would probably be stolen by “Satan.”
Satan! Wrennie shuddered21 still more. For Satan, the gaunt-jawed hook-nosed rail-faced head foreman, diabolically23 smiling when angry, sardonically24 sneering25 when calm, was a lean human whip-lash. Pete sniggered. He dilated26 upon Satan’s wrath27 at Wrennie for not “coming across” with ten dollars for a bribe28 as he, Pete, had done.
(He lied, of course. And his words have not been given literally29. They were not beautiful words.)
McGarver, the straw-boss, would always lie awake to enjoy a good brisk indecent story, but he liked Wrennie’s admiration30 of him, so, lunging with his bull-like head out of his berth, he snorted:
“Hey, you, Pete, it’s time to pound your ear. Cut it out.”
Wrennie called down, sternly, “I ain’t no theological student, Pete, and I don’t mind profanity, but I wish you wouldn’t talk like a garbage-scow.”
“Hey, Poicy, did yuh bring your dictionary?” Pete bellowed31 to Tim, two feet distant from him. To Wrennie, “Say, Gladys, ain’t you afraid one of them long woids like, t’eological, will turn around and bite you right on the wrist?”
“Dry up!” irritatedly snapped a Canadian.
“Aw, cut it out, you — ” groaned32 another.
“Shut up,” added McGarver, the straw-boss. “Both of you.” Raging: “Gwan to bed, Pete, or I’ll beat your block clean off. I mean it, see? Hear me?”
Yes, Pete heard him. Doubtless the first officer on the bridge heard, too, and perhaps the inhabitants of Newfoundland. But Pete took his time in scratching the back of his neck and stretching before he crawled into his berth. For half an hour he talked softly to Tim, for Wrennie’s benefit, stating his belief that Satan, the head boss, had once thrown overboard a Jew much like Wrennie, and was likely thus to serve Wrennie, too. Tim pictured the result when, after the capsizing of the steamer which would undoubtedly33 occur if this long sickening motion kept up, Wrennie had to take to a boat with Satan.
The fingers of Wrennie curled into shape for strangling some one.
When Pete was asleep he worried off into thin slumber34.
Then, there was Satan, the head boss, jerking him out of his berth, stirring his cramped35 joints36 to another dawn of drudgery37 — two hours of work and two of waiting before the daily eight-o’clock insult called breakfast. He tugged38 on his shoes, marveling at Mr. Wrenn’s really being there, at his sitting in cramped stoop on the side of a berth in a dark filthy39 place that went up and down like a freight elevator, subject to the orders of persons whom he did not in the least like.
Through the damp gray sea-air he staggered hungrily along the gangway to the hatch amidships, and trembled down the iron ladder to McGarver’s crew ‘tween-decks.
First, watering the steers40. Sickened by walking backward with pails of water he carried till he could see and think of nothing in the world save the water-butt, the puddle41 in front of it, and the cattlemen mercilessly dipping out pails there, through centuries that would never end. How those steers did drink!
McGarver’s favorite bull, which he called “the Grenadier,” took ten pails and still persisted in leering with dripping gray mouth beyond the headboard, trying to reach more. As Wrennie was carrying a pail to the heifers beyond, the Grenadier’s horn caught and tore his overalls. The boat lurched. The pail whirled out of his hand. He grasped an iron stanchion and kicked the Grenadier in the jaw22 till the steer backed off, a reformed character.
McGarver cheered, for such kicks were a rule of the game.
“Good work,” ironically remarked Tim, the weakling hatter.
“You go to hell,” snapped Wrennie, and Tim looked much more respectful.
But Wrennie lost this credit before they had finished feeding out the hay, for he grew too dizzy to resent Tim’s remarks.
Straining to pitch forkfuls into the pens while the boat rolled, slopping along the wet gangway, down by the bunkers of coal, where the heat seemed a close-wound choking shroud42 and the darkness was made only a little pale by light coming through dust-caked port-holes, he sneezed and coughed and grunted43 till he was exhausted44. The floating bits of hay-dust were a thousand impish hands with poisoned nails scratching at the roof of his mouth. His skin prickled all over. He constantly discovered new and aching muscles. But he wabbled on until he finished the work, fifteen minutes after Tim had given out.
He crawled up to the main deck and huddled45 in the shelter of a pile of hay-bales where Pete was declaring to Tim and the rest that Satan “couldn’t never get nothing on him.”
Morton broke into Pete’s publicity46 with the question, “Say, is it straight what they say, Pete, that you’re the guy that owns the Leyland Line and that’s why you know so much more than the rest of us poor lollops? Watson, the needle, quick!” [Applause and laughter.]
Wrennie felt personally grateful to Morton for this, but he went up to the aft top deck, where he could lie alone on a pile of tarpaulins47. He made himself observe the sea which, as Kipling and Jack19 London had specifically promised him in their stories, surrounded him, everywhere shining free; but he glanced at it only once. To the north was a liner bound for home.
Home! Gee! That was rubbing it in! While at work, whether he was sick or not, he could forget — things. But the liner, fleeting48 on with bright ease, made the cattle-boat seem about as romantic as Mrs. Zapp’s kitchen sink.
Why, he wondered —“why had he been a chump? Him a wanderer? No; he was a hired man on a sea-going dairy-farm. Well, he’d get onto this confounded job before he was through with it, but then — gee! back to God’s Country!”
While the Merian, eleven days out, pleasantly rocked through the Irish Sea, with the moon revealing the coast of Anglesey, one Bill Wrenn lay on the after-deck, condescending49 to the heavens. It was so warm that they did not need to sleep below, and half a dozen of the cattlemen had brought their mattresses50 up on deck. Beside Bill Wrenn lay the man who had given him that name — Tim, the hatter, who had become weakly alarmed and admiring as Wrennie learned to rise feeling like a boy in early vacation-time, and to find shouting exhilaration in sending a forkful of hay fifteen good feet.
Morton, who lay near by, had also adopted the name “Bill Wrenn.” Most of the trip Morton had discussed Pete and Tim instead of the fact that “things is curious.” Mr. Wrenn had been jealous at first, but when he learned from Morton the theory that even a Pete was a “victim of ‘vironment” he went out for knowing him quite systematically51.
To McGarver he had been “Bill Wrenn” since the fifth day, when he had kept a hay-bale from slipping back into the hold on the boss’s head. Satan and Pete still called him “Wrennie,” but he was not thinking about them just now with Tim listening admiringly to his observations on socialism.
Tim fell asleep. Bill Wrenn lay quiet and let memory color the sky above him. He recalled the gardens of water which had flowered in foam52 for him, strange ships and nomadic53 gulls54, and the schools of sleekly55 black porpoises56 that, for him, had whisked through violet waves. Most of all, he brought back the yesterday’s long excitement and delight of seeing the Irish coast hills — his first foreign land — whose faint sky fresco57 had seemed magical with the elfin lore58 of Ireland, a country that had ever been to him the haunt not of potatoes and politicians, but of fays. He had wanted fays. They were not common on the asphalt of West Sixteenth Street. But now he had seen them beckoning59 in Wanderland.
He was falling asleep under the dancing dome60 of the sky, a happy Mr. Wrenn, when he was aroused as a furious Bill, the cattleman. Pete was clogging61 near by, singing hoarsely62, “Dey was a skoit and ‘er name was Goity.”
“You shut up!” commanded Bill Wrenn.
“Say, be careful!” the awakened63 Tim implored64 of him. Pete snorted: “Who says to ‘shut up,’ hey? Who was it, Satan?”
From the capstan, where he was still smoking, the head foreman muttered: “What’s the odds65? The little man won’t say it again.”
Pete stood by Bill Wrenn’s mattress. “Who said ‘shut up’?” sounded ominously66.
Bill popped out of bed with what he regarded as a vicious fighting-crouch. For he was too sleepy to be afraid. “I did! What you going to do about it?” More mildly, as a fear of his own courage began to form, “I want to sleep.”
“Oh! You want to sleep. Little mollycoddle67 wants to sleep, does he? Come here!”
The tough grabbed at Bill’s shirt-collar across the mattress. Bill ducked, stuck out his arm wildly, and struck Pete, half by accident. Roaring, Pete bunted him, and he went down, with Pete kneeling on his stomach and pounding him.
Morton and honest McGarver, the straw-boss, sprang to drag off Pete, while Satan, the panther, with the first interest they had ever seen in his eyes, snarled68: “Let ’em fight fair. Rounds. You’re a’ right, Bill.”
“Right,” commended Morton.
Armored with Satan’s praise, firm but fearful in his rubber sneakers, surprised and shocked to find himself here doing this, Bill Wrenn squared at the rowdy. The moon touched sadly the lightly sketched70 Anglesey coast and the rippling71 wake, but Bill Wrenn, oblivious72 of dream moon and headland, faced his fellow-bruiser.
They circled. Pete stuck out his foot gently. Morton sprang in, bawling73 furiously, “None o’ them rough-and-tumble tricks.”
“Right-o,” added McGarver.
Pete scowled74. He was left powerless. He puffed75 and grew dizzy as Bill Wrenn danced delicately about him, for he could do nothing without back-street tactics. He did bloody76 the nose of Bill and pummel his ribs77, but many cigarettes and much whisky told, and he was ready to laugh foolishly and make peace when, at the end of the sixth round, he felt Bill’s neat little fist in a straight — and entirely78 accidental — rip to the point of his jaw.
Pete sent his opponent spinning with a back-hander which awoke all the cruelty of the terrible Bill. Silently Bill Wrenn plunged79 in with a smash! smash! smash! like a murderous savage80, using every grain of his strength.
Let us turn from the lamentable81 luck of Pete. He had now got the idea that his supposed victim could really fight. Dismayed, shocked, disgusted, he stumbled and sought to flee, and was sent flat.
This time it was the great little Bill who had to be dragged off. McGarver held him, kicking and yammering, his mild mustache bristling82 like a battling cat’s, till the next round, when Pete was knocked out by a clumsy whirlwind of fists.
He lay on the deck, with Bill standing83 over him and demanding, “What’s my name, heh?”
“I t’ink it’s Bill now, all right, Wrennie, old hoss — Bill, old hoss,” groaned Pete.
He was permitted to sneak69 off into oblivion.
Bill Wrenn went below. In the dark passage by the fidley he fell to tremorous weeping. But the brackish84 hydrant water that stopped his nose-bleed saved him from hysterics. He climbed to the top deck, and now he could again see his brother pilgrim, the moon.
The stiffs and bosses were talking excitedly of the fight. Tim rushed up to gurgle: “Great, Bill, old man! You done just what I’d ‘a’ done if he’d cussed me. I told you Pete was a bluffer85.”
“Git out,” said Satan.
Tim fled.
Morton came up, looked at Bill Wrenn, pounded him on the shoulder, and went off to his mattress. The other stiffs slouched away, but McGarver and Satan were still discussing the fight.
Snuggling on the hard black pile of tarpaulins, Bill talked to them, warmed to them, and became Mr. Wrenn. He announced his determination to wander adown every shining road of Europe.
“Nice work.” “Sure.” “You’ll make a snappy little ole globe-trotter.” “Sure; ought to be able to get the slickest kind of grub for four bits a day.” “Nice work,” Satan interjected from time to time, with smooth irony86. “Sure. Go ahead. Like to hear your plans.”
McGarver broke in: “Cut that out, Marvin. You’re a ‘Satan’ all right. Quit your kidding the little man. He’s all right. And he done fine on the job last three-four days.”
Lying on his mattress, Bill stared at the network of the ratlines against the brilliant sky. The crisscross lines made him think of the ruled order-blanks of the Souvenir Company.
“Gee!” he mused87, “I’d like to know if Jake is handling my work the way we — they — like it. I’d like to see the old office again, and Charley Carpenter, just for a couple of minutes. Gee! I wish they could have seen me put it all over Pete to-night! That’s what I’m going to do to the blooming Englishmen if they don’t like me.”
The S.S. Merian panted softly beside the landing-stage at Birkenhead, Liverpool’s Jersey88 City, resting in the sunshine after her voyage, while the cattle were unloaded. They had encountered fog-banks at the mouth of the Mersey River. Mr. Wrenn had ecstatically watched the shores of England — England! — ride at him through the fog, and had panted over the lines of English villas89 among the dunes90. It was like a dream, yet the shore had such amazingly safe solid colors, real red and green and yellow, when contrasted with the fog-wet deck unearthily glancing with mist-lights.
Now he was seeing his first foreign city, and to Morton, stolidly91 curious beside him, he could say nothing save “Gee!” With church-tower and swarthy dome behind dome, Liverpool lay across the Mersey. Up through the Liverpool streets that ran down to the river, as though through peep-holes slashed92 straight back into the Middle Ages, his vision plunged, and it wandered unchecked through each street while he hummed:
“Free, free, in Eu-ro-pee, that’s me!”
The cattlemen were called to help unload the remaining hay. They made a game of it. Even Satan smiled, even the Jewish elders were lightly affable as they made pretendedly fierce gestures at the squat93 patient hay-bales. Tim, the hatter, danced a limber foolish jig94 upon the deck, and McGarver bellowed, “The bon-nee bon-nee banks of Loch Lo-o-o-o-mond.”
The crowd bawled95: “Come on, Bill Wrenn; your turn. Hustle96 up with that bale, Pete, or we’ll sic Bill on you.”
Bill Wrenn, standing very dignified97, piped: “I’m Colonel Armour98. I own all these cattle, ‘cept the Morris uns, see? Gotta do what I say, savvy99? Tim, walk on your ear.”
The hatter laid his head on the deck and waved his anemic legs in accordance with directions from Colonel Armour (late Wrenn).
The hay was off. The Merian tooted and headed across the Mersey to the Huskinson Dock, in Liverpool, while the cattlemen played tag about the deck. Whooping100 and laughing, they made last splashy toilets at the water-butts, dragged out their luggage, and descended101 to the dock-house.
As the cattlemen passed Bill Wrenn and Morton, shouting affectionate good-bys in English or courteous102 Yiddish, Bill commented profanely103 to Morton on the fact that the solid stone floor of the great shed seemed to have enough sea-motion to “make a guy sick.” It was nearly his last utterance104 as Bill Wrenn. He became Mr. Wrenn, absolute Mr. Wrenn, on the street, as he saw a real English bobby, a real English carter, and the sign, “Cocoa House. Tea Id.”
England!
“Now for some real grub!” cried Morton. “No more scouse and willow-leaf tea.”
Stretching out their legs under a table glorified105 with toasted Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, served by a waitress who said “Thank you“ with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line of mirrors running Britishly all around the room over the long lounge seat, and smiled with the triumphant106 content which comes to him whose hunger for dreams and hunger for meat-pies are satisfied together.
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1
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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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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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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foghorn
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| n..雾号（浓雾信号） | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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buckling
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| 扣住 | |
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shredding
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的现在分词 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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diabolically
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sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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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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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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tarpaulins
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| n.防水帆布，防水帆布罩( tarpaulin的名词复数 ) | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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50
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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51
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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52
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sleekly
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| 光滑地，光泽地 | |
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porpoises
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| n.鼠海豚( porpoise的名词复数 ) | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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clogging
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| 堵塞，闭合 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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mollycoddle
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| v.溺爱，娇养 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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bluffer
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| n.用假像骗人的人 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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savvy
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| v.知道，了解；n.理解能力，机智，悟性；adj.有见识的，懂实际知识的，通情达理的 | |
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100
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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101
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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102
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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103
profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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104
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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105
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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106
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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