A significant cough from Dorkin gave me to understand that my signal had reached him. I then took stock of my neighbours. One of the townsmen had departed, and it was easy to see that the man with the stick was growing every moment more and more impatient.
“If the boss don’t soon ‘urry up, I’ll have to go without it,” he said. “What’s he doin’ of? This ain’t the way to treat good customers. I can’t say that I think much of it myself.”
“He won’t be long,” the barman replied. “I expect he’s looking to see how much he’s got in the cash box.”
The man ordered whisky for himself and some rum for his companion. The suspense1 was evidently telling on their nerves. At last Dorkin made his appearance.
“Who is it wants a cheque cashed?” he asked, looking about him for the individual in question. “If he’s after an advance he’d better look sharp and see about it, for it’s well up to closing time.”
“I’m the man, boss,” said the rascal3 with the stick. “It’s got Mr. Wilberforce of Carrandara’s name on it, so I reckon it’s good enough for you, and for me, too. What do you think?”
“Never mind what I think,” returned the other; “all I know is that I wish I had his money. What have you been doing up there? Stayin’ with the family, I should say, by the look of your hands and face.”
“Never mind my face,” growled4 the man. “I’ve been shearin’ up there, that’s what I’ve been doin’. We cut out last Friday, and next day he give me the cheque for my vallyble services. Now what I want you to do is to cash it for me straight out, or as near as you can get to it. If you can’t manage it all, I’ll come in for the rest to--morrow. I can trust you I reckon. Sep. Dorkin’s word is as good as bank notes, so I’ve heard folks say.”
“Folks is mighty6 civil all of a sudden,” remarked Dorkin contemptuously. “Howsomever, that’s neither here nor there. Just hand over the cheque and let me have a look at it. Then I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. I banked up this afternoon, but I may be able to manage it.”
Never suspecting anything, the fellow produced an envelope from his pocket and from it a slip of paper, which he passed across the counter to the landlord. Then he waited to see what would happen next. In spite of his bravado7, I noticed that his hand trembled as it took up the glass of whisky and put it to his lips. Dorkin turned it over and over before he put it down.
“What’s your name?” he asked at last. “I don’t mean any offence, but a man has to protect himself.”
“What do you think it is?” enquired8 the other angrily. “Ain’t it writ9 there as plain as this glass that’s in my ‘and? Don’t it say Robert Flaxman? If it don’t, then I’m a Rooshian.”
“That’s what it does say,” was Dorkin’s rejoinder, “but how am I to know that you’re the man? Your name may be Bill Jones for all I know. A nice thing it would be for me if I was to give you the money for this--what is it? ninety-eight pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence--and find out afterwards that I’d been spoofed. Is there anybody in the town that can speak for you? Fetch ’em along, and if it’s all right I’ll do it straight off, I give you my word.”
This was a new way of looking at the matter, and the ruffian by no means approved of it. What was worse, Dorkin had possession of the cheque, and, owing to the width of the counter and the fact that the other was standing10 with his back against the bottle-rack, it was impossible for him to take it from him.
“You seem mighty distrustful all of a sudden, boss,” he remarked. “I don’t know as how I altogether like the way you’re talkin’. Anybody to ‘ear you would go and say you thought I’d stole it.”
“Well, find somebody to speak for you,” said Dorkin, folding and unfolding the little blue slip as he spoke11. “That’s all I want. If you’ve been up at Carrandara, there must be somebody here who knows you. You can’t blame me for takin’ care of myself, can you? I’d be a fool if I didn’t.”
Suddenly an idea occurred to the man, and he was quick to act upon it.
“There’s my mate here,” he said. “As nice and sociable12 a feller as you’d meet between Bourke and Sydney. He was rouseabouting up there along of me. He’ll tell yer that I’m quite respectable, and speak for me anywhere, won’t you, Bill? Talk up like a man to the gentleman.”
Unfortunately for the success of his scheme, the genial13 William was by this time sound asleep, with his head on the counter and his legs spread out like a pair of dividers. His friend did his best to rouse him, and at length succeeded. But even then his great intellect proved unequal to the strain of thinking. He began by flatly and firmly declaring that he had never seen the other before, then that he would not be seen in his company for all the money in the world, and concluded his remarks by observing that he was like the Prophet Daniel, inasmuch as he had “fallen into a burning fiery14 den2 of thieves.” With this assertion on his lips he slid quietly down to the floor, where he resumed his slumbers15 as contentedly16 as a little child. To say that his friend was disgusted at such behaviour would not be to express his feelings at all. He kicked him viciously and called him by certain names which I will not pollute my pen by recording17. Meanwhile, Dorkin watched him like a cat does a mouse.
“drop that,” he cried in a voice of thunder, as the other was about to raise his foot for a second kick. “I’ll have none of that here, so you’d better stop it or you’ll hear from me.”
“I’d knock your head off for a nobbler of whisky,” growled the man, and then added somewhat inconsequently, “Call this ’ere a civilised country? There’s a nice mate for you--eats your tucker, sleeps in your blankets, cadges18 your money, and when you want ‘is word to speak for you, ups and says he don’t know anything about you. Wait till I get ’im outside. If I don’t give ’im what for, well, my name ain’t Johnny Walker. You mark me. I’ll learn him to miscall me, if I do time for it.”
“So your name’s Johnny Walker, is it?” asked Dorkin. “I had a sort of an idea you said it was Flaxman?”
“Well, and isn’t it?” asked the man, and then added with a cunning that deceived nobody, “Haven’t you never ‘eard the sayin’ about Johnny Walker? You didn’t surely think that was my name, did you? That’s a good joke, if ever there was one. Lord, how my mate would laugh if he could hear it. Never mind about that there cheque, boss. Hand it over here, and if you won’t cash it, I make no doubt but that I shall find somebody else as will.”
But Dorkin refused to return the draft, and there was a look on his face that boded19 ill for the man who might try to force him to do so. Johnny Walker, if that were his real name, had met his match at last, and it’s my belief that he knew it. To feel that one has made a vital mistake and is absolutely powerless to retrieve20 it is by no means a pleasant sensation, particularly where the appropriation21 of other people’s money is concerned. Dorkin, while he had been meditating22, had folded up the paper and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. Then he came forward and leant over the counter.
“Look you here, Mr. Robert Flaxman, Johnny Walker, Bill Jones, or whatever else you may call yourself, for the present that ’ere cheque stays with me, Sep. Dorkin. Later on I’ll send it back to the party who it rightfully belongs to. If you kept it, it might get you into a power of trouble, so I’m going to take care of it for you just for a while. It isn’t any use your getting wild about it, for you know me and I know you, though you pretend to let on you don’t.”
Here a violent oath escaped from the rascal on the other side of the counter, which he capped with another to the effect that he had never set eyes on the landlord before.
“Then you’re a bit more forgetful than I took you to be,” replied Dorkin, who was not in the least put out by the other’s language. “I reckon it’ll be necessary for me under the circumstances to tell you where and when I first had the honour of clappin’ eyes on that lovely face of yours. It may come as a bit of a surprise, like, to know how I’ve treasured your memory all these years, like the girl in the song Sailor Joe used to sing. Bless me, how does it go now? Ah! I have it.” Here he commenced to lift up his voice in melody. “’Tis in the silence of the night
Your dear face comes to me; I linger long on that fond sight.
And sweetly dream--and sweetly
dream of thee!”
“Pretty ain’t it? Well, that’s how I feel about that face of yours, though I haven’t dropped into poetry yet.”
“Oh, stow this rot and ‘and over that cheque,” said the object of his admiration23. “I’m not going to be kept ’ere all night, not for you nor anybody else. Fetch it out and let me get my mate back to camp. As he gets sober, he gets that quarrelsome you’d be ashamed to ‘ave ’im round the place.”
But Dorkin still showed no sign of relinquishing24 possession of what the other declared to be his property. On the contrary he put it in his coat pocket and buttoned it up. Then there ensued an ominous25 pause, during which each man steadily26 regarded the other. The man on the wrong side of the counter was the first to break it.
“This is a nice sort of game you’re playin’ on me,” he said. “If you won’t ‘and it over, I’ll ‘ave to see what the law will say to you. You won’t like that, you know.”
Dorkin laughed good-humouredly. He knew perfectly27 well that the other was only playing a game of bluff28. To employ a Bush expression, he had now got him roped into a corner and was going to finish him off in proper style. The man looked more and more uncomfortable the longer he regarded his tormentor’s face. More than once he glanced over his shoulder at the door, as if to make sure that it was ready in case he might want to make his escape by it. Noticing this, I edged my way towards it with the idea of frustrating29 his intention. The critical moment had arrived.
“Just one moment,” said the landlord, speaking very slowly and with unusual impressiveness; “there’s just two little questions I should like to ask you before we go any further, and for the simple reason, as the lawyers say, that they ‘ave a bearin’ on the point at issue. First and foremost--no, you needn’t look round at that door, it’s just where it was five minutes ago, and my friend is takin’ all sorts of care that it don’t run away. As I was sayin’, first and foremost, who was Bill Bailey? Perhaps you’ll be good enough to answer me that.”
“Never ‘eard tell of ’im,” answered the other sullenly30, looking everywhere but at his questioner. “What do I know about yer Bill Baileys?”
“More than you’re game to stand up to, I reckon,” was the quiet rejoinder. “Well, if you won’t tell me, I suppose I’ll have to tell you. Bill Bailey, sometimes called Roarin’ Bill, sometimes called Bill the Liar31, was a gent as gave his best attention to raisin’ horseflesh, and he did that same rearin’ in a mighty curious sort of fashion--that is to say, with a saddle and bridle32 when the owner wasn’t round handy to notice him. One day he sold a friend of mine a likely sort of nag5 out on the Upper Barcoo, and--well, to make a long story short, poor Bill went up for five years’ hard. He was terrible surprised, was Bill, I could see that, when the beak33 sentenced him. Then close on four and a half years went by and most folk had given up thinkin’ of him and didn’t want to remember him when they did, till one day there was a pretty little bit of cattle duffin’ done out Cunnamulla way, and the police were soon on the track, and Michael White, alias34 Bill Bailey, alias Roarin’ Bill, alias Bill the Liar, had to face the judge’s chin-music once more. It was seven years this time. Well, allowin’ for good conduct marks, we might say, therefore, and this is my point, that he ought to have been out a matter of a month ago. He was a rare one to gammon the chaplain they tell me, was Bill, so perhaps he’s come to be a reformed character, perhaps he ain’t. What would you say, Mr.--Johnny Walker? I believe you said that was your name?”
Again I regret to say that it is impossible for me to give that gentleman’s reply in his own picturesque35 language. I may remark, however, that while it was terse36 and to the point, it did not paint a very hopeful picture of my friend’s hereafter.
“Just one more point, and then I’m done with you,” continued the inexorable Dorkin, calmly lighting37 his pipe and speaking between the puffs38 of smoke. “It so happens, and I want your attention, gentlemen all, if you please; it so happens, I say again, that an individual fresh from Carrandara Station arrived in town to-night. He had in his pocket a cheque signed by Mr. Wilber-force for ninety-eight pounds, fourteen shillings and sixpence. It was made out in the name of John Flaxman, not Bill Bailey or Johnny Walker, only plain John Flaxman. Now a couple of forties--you know the term, gentlemen--happened to get hold of Mr. Flaxman and laid him out with a club. By the way, I like your stick, Mr. Walker, it’s a pretty weapon any way you look at it. When my friend over there discovered the individual to whom I refer, he was lying insensible in the gutter39, with a big bump on the back of his head, bleeding like a stuck pig; his cheque was gone. What is more, that gentleman is now under my roof, where he will stay until he has recovered himself a bit. What I want to ask you, gentlemen all, is this--what you would do with a couple of dead-brokes like that, who first try murder and robbery, and then do their best to drag an innocent publican into their dirty business? If it hadn’t been for Mr. Tregaskis there, they would probably have done me brown--this very night. Shall I hand them over to the police, or what shall I do with them? If I lock them up, it’s certain we’ll all have to give evidence against them, and this time, Mr. Walker, it will as like not be fifteen instead of seven years.”
At this point the latter forgot himself and was imprudent enough to declare that Dorkin had invented the whole story, and that, so far as he was concerned, he was prepared to prove his innocence40. It was an unfortunate statement for him to have made, as he immediately discovered, for the words were scarcely out of his mouth before Dorkin had vaulted41 over the counter, elderly man though he was, and had given the other such a blow in the face that he shot across the room and fell headlong upon the prostrate42 body of his snoring companion, thereby43 waking him up most effectually. The latter, imagining himself to be assaulted, hit out wildly, right and left, and continued to do so long after I had dragged his fellow villain44 out into the middle of the room by the heels.
“Get up, you dog,” cried Dorkin, standing over him with clenched45 fists. “Get up, or I’ll kick you into a jelly. Don’t you lie shamming46 there. Get up, I say, or I’ll give you something to remember me by that will last you till your dying day. I’ll teach you to try and palm your robberies off on me, you skunk47. What you want is the cat to make you jump, and if you’re not a bit more careful it won’t be long before you get it. Up with you now!”
Mr. Walker looked at the tall figure standing over him and realised that the game was played out so far as he was concerned. He thereupon scrambled48 to his feet, and began, more for form’s sake than for any other reason, to brush his clothes, which were covered with sawdust from the floor. An excellent lump was steadily rising on his left cheekbone. It promised to achieve decent proportions before many hours were past.
“Now then, out you go,” cried Dorkin, pointing to the door. “Get out of my house, and if ever you dare to show as much as your nose in it again I’ll man-haul you till your own best friend wouldn’t know you. Git!”
Someday, perhaps, Mr. Walker will learn, probably he has done so by this time, if he has not already been hanged, that instant obedience49 is a virtue50 to be assiduously cultivated. Had he done so earlier in life he might have come off better on this occasion. The woman who hesitates is lost, we are told. In this case it was the man. That moment’s hesitation51 cost him another painful bruise52, to say nothing of his lacerated feelings--the seat of his trousers and a torn coat collar. It came about in this fashion. Observing that the other did not quit quite as soon as he might have done, Dorkin seized him by the two last-named portions of his attire53 and ran him to the door, which I threw open. Then, with one mighty swing, he hurled54 him forth55 into the night, to ricochet from a verandah post and finally to lie prone56 in the inch--deep dust of the road. The landlord then returned for his companion, who followed his leader’s ignominious57 flight. Personally, I have never tried it, but I should say that there are few things in life more humiliating than to be ejected so summarily and violently from a place of popular resort. It not only does not look well for one’s self--respect, but the after effects are apt to be as unpleasant as they are lingering.
Later the other guests of the house departed, and, while my friend was locking up, I went off to ascertain58 how my protegé was prospering59. Mrs. Dorkin had bathed and plaistered his head, and when I entered the room I found him sound asleep. Next morning he was almost himself once more, and absurdly grateful to me for having rescued him. I may here, perhaps, confess that the more I saw of the man the more I liked him. In spite of his Bush clothes, the veriest tyro60 could have told that he was a gentleman. He was tall, but not well built, with a curious stoop, the result of round shoulders. At first glance, you would doubtless have inclined, as I did, to the belief that he was consumptive, but he certainly was not. Among other things, he possessed61 an exceedingly pleasant voice and a charm of manner that I have never known equalled. He was also the possessor of one of the most equable tempers a man could possibly be blessed with. Nothing ever disturbed it. Indeed, throughout our long and more than intimate friendship I am quite sure I only once saw him in anything remotely approaching what might be termed a rage. He was, I believe, though I could not test him, an excellent linguist62; I knew him for an expert musician; his small library, consisting of some half-dozen authors, proved him a Latin and Greek scholar, while one or two little slips he made on various occasions gave me good reason to suppose that he had once been a University man of some importance, or, at any rate, one from whom greater things than a Bush life had been expected. That he had not fulfilled them was evident from the mere63 fact of his presence in Australia. As I found out later, he had one serious fault--that is to say, so far as I was capable of judging--and that was the fact that, blessed with the gift of accumulating knowledge, he was, like myself with my own studies, totally lacking in that of application. It was in itself perhaps a weakness rather than a fault, but it had been sufficient to spoil his entire life.
For upwards64 of a week he remained in Dorkin’s house, and it was not until the end of that time that he and I came to the resolution that was destined65 to change the course of both our lives. We were equally tired of New South Wales, and we were also anxious to make a bid for fortune on our own account. The unfortunate part of it was that we neither of us knew how or where to begin. However, we had taken a great liking66 to each other, and were ready to throw in our lots together so soon as we should hear of something we fancied might suit us. To my delight I discovered that Flaxman had an amount almost equivalent to my own lying to his credit in a Sydney bank, so that as far as money went we were more than ordinarily well equipped. Day by day we had long discussions with Dorkin, whom we both regarded as a standard authority on anything connected with the Bush. The vexed67 question as to whether cattle paid better than sheep was debated, the different markets were taken into consideration, the varying descriptions of country had to be thought of, with half a hundred other matters, at first sight comparatively unimportant, but apt to become little short of gigantic when focussed against the magnitude of the stake at issue. We were neither of us millionaires, and one big loss, the result of hasty judgment68, might spell irretrievable ruin for both of us. Small wonder therefore, that we made up our minds to exercise the greatest caution, and not to put our feet down until we were certain that the ground on which we were treading was likely to prove a sure foothold. Personally, I was strong for cattle, and though I fancy Flaxman would have preferred sheep, he was easy going enough to give in to me. That was always his way; rather than have trouble, he would throw aside his own wishes in favour of anything proposed by a person he liked. It would have been better for him, and, Heaven knows, a great deal better for me, had he always spoken his mind as he felt, and not have taken any notice of my likes and dislikes. But what had to be, had to be. It was Kismet, and who shall try to avert69 his fate?
At last, and when we were almost tired of the subject, we resolved to set out on what might have been termed a tour of inspection70 through the two Colonies. It was not without regret that we bade Septimus Dorkin “good-bye,” little dreaming that neither of us was destined ever to see him in the flesh again. I have already told you what his end was. Heaven rest him, he was a kind friend to me, though when I first met him I did not anticipate it.
It was on a bright sunny morning at the commencement of winter that we said farewell to Bourke. Our horses were far too fat after their long rest, and Flaxman and myself were but little better. However, we hoped by careful riding to knock them and ourselves into shape before we crossed the border into Queensland. It is wonderful how quickly a Bush horse hardens himself if only he be judiciously71 managed.
We had not been long upon the road before I began to discover that my companion, good fellow as he was, could by no means be considered a first-class Bushman. Seeing that he had spent most of his time in the store at Carrandara--the only station on which he had been employed since his arrival in Australia--this was scarcely to be wondered at. Yet I could not help marvelling72 that with all his cleverness in picking up other things, he had not managed to acquire the insight into matters, which, without boasting, I might say had come to me intuitively. Without meaning any sort of disparagement73 to him, I ought, for the sake of what is to come, to remark that he could not leave the camp to put the horses on to water half a mile away without getting bushed74; while his cooking, when I allowed him to try his hand at it, was bad enough to have made the very poorest lodging-house slavey weep for shame of the human race. His damper was invariably brick-like; his Johnny-cakes would have made excellent fishing-line sinkers had they been used as such, while to trust him in any way with the cooking of meat was only to court inevitable75 disaster. Yet with it all he was never anything but cheerful, ready at all hours to do more than his fair share of work, never grumbled76 if short commons became necessary, and was always sanguine77 as to the success we should meet with in the future. A better companion in that way no man could possibly wish to have.
Having crossed the border, we made our way up the Bulloo River, then in full flood, crossing the Cheviot Range three days after leaving Adavale. Horse feed was abundant, water plentiful78, and we ourselves were in the very best of spirits. Were we not like modern Don Quixotes, going forth in search of adventure? From the Cheviots, we crossed on to the Barcoo, and then headed away for the Diamintina and the Great Plains that stretch thence beyond the Herbert River into the vast Unknown. Ye gods! what magnificent country it is, and what great things might be done with it were it but better watered. For hundreds of miles we rode through it, keeping our eyes open continually for any place that might suit us. So far, however, our search had been entirely79 unsuccessful.
“We must try further north,” I told Flaxman one evening when we were discussing it round the camp fire. “This country’s too big for us--a place the size we want would be lost in it. What’s more, we couldn’t afford to lay out the money necessary to conserve80 the water.”
“It seems a pity, too,” my companion replied, “for, as you say, it is wonderful country, and if we could only master the water difficulty a fortune would be standing waiting for us to pick it up. Why don’t we possess a few thousands more capital?”
But it was no good our wishing for what we had not got, so we were perforce compelled to make the best of it. Leaving the Far West behind us, we struck out towards the North-East, in the direction of the Flinders River.
After a long and wearisome journey across hundreds of miles of almost treeless plains, we at length reached the township of Hughenden, a quaint81 little place on the banks of the Flinders. Here we remained to rest and refit, and here it was that we made the discovery that was ultimately destined to play such an important part in both our lives. Chance had brought us together, and fate was now arranging to bring to perfection the work that chance had begun.
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收听单词发音
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1
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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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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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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contentedly
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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cadges
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| v.乞讨，乞得，索取( cadge的第三人称单数 ) | |
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boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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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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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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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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shamming
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| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
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skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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bushed
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| adj.疲倦的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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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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conserve
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| vt.保存，保护，节约，节省，守恒，不灭 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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