Mrs. Channing sat with her children. Breakfast was over, and she had the Bible open before her. Never, since their earliest years of understanding, had she failed to assemble them together for a few minutes’ reading, morning and evening. Not for too long at once; she knew the value of not tiring young children, when she was leading them to feel an interest in sacred things. She would take Hamish, a little fellow of three years old, upon her knee, read to him a short Bible story, suited to his age, and then talk to him. Talk to him in a soft, loving, gentle tone, of God, of Jesus, of heaven; of his duties in this world; of what he must do to attain2 to everlasting3 peace in the next. Day by day, step by step, untiringly, unceasingly, had she thus laboured, to awaken4 good in the child’s heart, to train it to holiness, to fill it with love of God. As the other children came on in years, she, in like manner, took them. From simple Bible stories to more advanced Bible stories, and thence to the Bible itself; with other books at times and seasons: a little reading, a little conversation, Gospel truths impressed upon them from her earnest lips. Be you very sure that where this great duty of all duties is left unfulfilled by a mother, a child is not brought up as it ought to be. Win your child towards heaven in his early years, and he will not forget it when he is old.
It will be as a very shield, compassing him about through life. He may wander astray—there is no telling—in the heyday5 of his hot-blooded youth, for the world’s temptations are as a running fire, scorching6 all that venture into its heat; but the good foundation has been laid, and the earnest, incessant7 prayers have gone up, and he will find his way home again.
Mrs. Channing closed the Bible, and spoke8, as usual. It was all that teaching should be. Good lessons as to this world; loving pictures of that to come. She had contrived9 to impress them, not with the too popular notion that heaven was a far-off place up in the skies some vague, millions of miles away, and to which we might be millions of years off; but that it was very near to them: that God was ever present with them; and that Death, when he came, should be looked upon as a friend, not an enemy. Hamish was three and twenty years old now, and he loved those minutes of instruction as he had done when a child. They had borne their fruit for him, and for all: though not, perhaps, in an equal degree.
The reading over, and the conversation over, she gave the book to Constance to put away, and the boys rose, and prepared to enter upon their several occupations. It was not the beginning of the day for Tom and Charles, for they had been already to early school.
“Is papa so very much worse to-day, mamma?” asked Tom.
“I did not say he was worse, Tom,” replied Mrs. Channing. “I said he had passed a restless night, and felt tired and weak.”
“Thinking over that confounded lawsuit,” cried hot, thoughtless Tom.
“Thomas!” reproved Mrs. Channing.
“I beg your pardon, mamma. Unorthodox words are the fashion in school, and one catches them up. I forget myself when I repeat them before you.”
“To repeat them before me is no worse than repeating them behind me, Tom.”
Tom laughed. “Very true, mamma. It was not a logical excuse. But I am sure the news, brought to us by the mail on Wednesday night, is enough to put a saint out of temper. Had there been anything unjust in it, had the money not been rightly ours, it would have been different; but to be deprived of what is legally our own—”
“Not legally—as it turns out,” struck in Hamish.
“Justly, then,” said Tom. “It’s too bad—especially as we don’t know what we shall do without it.”
“Tom, you are not to look at the dark side of things,” cried Constance, in a pretty, wilful10, commanding manner. “We shall do very well without it: it remains11 to be proved whether we shall not do better than with it.”
“Children, I wish to say a word to you upon this subject,” said Mrs. Channing. “When the news arrived, I was, you know, almost overwhelmed by it; not seeing, as Tom says, what we were to do without the money. In the full shock of the disappointment, it wore for me its worst aspect; a far more sombre one than the case really merited. But, now that I have had time to see it in its true light, my disappointment has subsided12. I consider that we took a completely wrong view of it. Had the decision deprived us of the income we enjoy, then indeed it would have been grievous; but in reality it deprives us of nothing. Not one single privilege that we possessed13 before, does it take from us; not a single outlay14 will it cost us. We looked to this money to do many things with; but its not coming renders us no worse off than we were. Expecting it has caused us to get behindhand with our bills, which we must gradually pay off in the best way we can; it takes from us the power to article Arthur, and it straitens us in many ways, for, as you grow up, you grow more expensive. This is the extent of the ill, except—”
“Oh, mamma, you forget! The worst ill of all is, that papa cannot now go to Germany.”
“I was about to say that, Arthur. But other means for his going thither15 may be found. Understand me, my dears: I do not see any means, or chance of means, at present: you must not fancy that; but it is possible that they may arise with the time of need. One service, at any rate, the decision has rendered me.”
“Service?” echoed Tom.
“Yes,” smiled Mrs. Channing. “It has proved to me that my children are loving and dutiful. Instead of repining, as some might, they are already seeking how they may make up, themselves, for the money that has not come. And Constance begins it.”
“Don’t fear us, mother,” cried Hamish, with his sunny smile. “We will be of more use to you yet than the money would have been.”
They dispersed—Hamish to his office, Arthur to Mr. Galloway’s, Tom and Charles to the cloisters16, that famous playground of the college school. Stolen pleasures, it is said, are sweetest; and, just because there had been a stir lately amongst the cathedral clergy18, touching19 the desirability of forbidding the cloisters to the boys for play, so much the more eager were they to frequent them.
As Arthur was going down Close Street, he encountered Mr. Williams, the cathedral organist, striding along with a roll of music in his hand. He was Arthur’s music-master. When Arthur Channing was in the choir20, a college schoolboy, he had displayed considerable taste for music; and it was decided21 that he should learn the organ. He had continued to take lessons after he left the choir, and did so still.
“I was thinking of coming round to speak to you to-day, Mr. Williams.”
“What about?” asked the organist. “Anything pressing?”
“Well, you have heard, of course, that that suit is given against us, so I don’t mean to continue the organ. They have said nothing to me at home; but it is of no use spending money that might be saved. But I see you are in too great a hurry, to stay to talk now.”
“Hurry! I am hurried off my legs,” cried the organist. “If a dozen or two of my pupils would give up learning, as you talk of doing, I should only be obliged to them. I have more work than I can attend to. And now Jupp must go and lay himself up, and I have the services to attend myself, morning and afternoon!”
Mr. Jupp was assistant-organist. An apprentice22 to Mr. Williams, but just out of his time.
“What’s the matter with Jupp?” asked Arthur.
“A little bit of fever, and a great deal of laziness,” responded Mr. Williams. “He is the laziest fellow alive. Since his uncle died, and that money came to him, he doesn’t care a straw how things go. He was copyist to the cathedral, and he gave that up last week. I have asked Sandon, the lay-clerk, if he will take the copying, but he declines. He is another lazy one.”
The organist hurried off. Arthur strove to detain him for another word or two, but it was of no use. So he continued his way to Mr. Galloway’s.
Busy enough were his thoughts there. His fingers were occupied with writing, but his mind went roaming without leave. This post of copyist of music to the cathedral, which appeared to be going begging; why should not he undertake it, if Mr. Williams would give it to him? He was quite able to do so, and though he very much disliked music-copying, that was nothing: he was not going to set up dislikes, and humour them. He had only a vague idea what might be the remuneration; ten, or twelve, or fifteen pounds a year, he fancied it might bring in. Better that, than nothing; it would be a beginning to follow in the wake that Constance had commenced; and he could do it of an evening, or at other odd times. “I won’t lose an hour in asking for it,” thought Arthur.
At one o’clock, when he was released from the office, he ran through the Boundaries to the cloisters, intending to pass through them on his way to the house of the organist, that being rather a nearer road to it, than if he had gone round the town. The sound of the organ, however, struck upon his ear, causing him to assume that it was the organist who was playing. Arthur tried the cathedral door, found it open, and went it.
It was Mr. Williams. He had been trying some new music, and rose from the organ as Arthur reached the top of the stairs, no very pleasant expression on his countenance23.
“What is the matter?” asked Arthur, perceiving that something had put him out.
“I hate ingratitude,” responded Mr. Williams. “Jenkins,” he called out to the old bedesman, who had been blowing for him, “you may go to your dinner; I shan’t want you any more now.”
Old Jenkins hobbled down from the organ-loft, and Mr. Williams continued to Arthur:
“Would you believe that Jupp has withdrawn24 himself utterly25?”
“From the college?” exclaimed Arthur.
“From the college, and from me. His father comes to me, an hour ago, and says he is sure Jupp’s in a bad state of health, and he intends to send him to his relatives in the Scotch26 mountains for some months, to try and brace27 him up. Not a word of apology, for leaving me at a pinch.”
“It will be very inconvenient28 for you,” said Arthur. “I suppose that new apprentice of yours is of no use yet for the services?”
“Use!” irascibly retorted Mr. Williams, “he could not play a psalm29 if it were to save his life. I depended upon Jupp. It was an understood thing that he should remain with me as assistant; had it not been, I should have taken good care to bring somebody on to replace him. As to attending the services on week-days myself, it is next door to an impossibility. If I do, my teaching will be ruined.”
“I wish I was at liberty,” said Arthur; “I would take them for you.”
“Look here, Channing,” said the organist. “Since I had this information of old Jupp’s, my brain has been worrying itself pretty well, as you may imagine. Now, there’s no one I would rather trust to take the week-day services than you, for you are fully30 capable, and I have trained you into my own style of playing: I never could get Jupp entirely31 into it; he is too fond of noise and flourishes. It has struck me that perhaps Mr. Galloway might spare you: his office is not overdone32 with work, and I would make it worth your while.”
Arthur, somewhat bewildered at the proposal, sat down on one of the stools, and stared.
“You will not be offended at my saying this. I speak in consequence of your telling me, this morning, you could not afford to go on with your lessons,” continued the organist. “But for that, I should not have thought of proposing such a thing to you. What capital practice it would be for you, too!”
“The best proof to convince you I am not offended, is to tell you what brings me here now,” said Arthur in a cordial tone. “I understood, this morning, that you were at a loss for some one to undertake the copying of the cathedral music: I have come to ask you to give it to me.”
“You may have it, and welcome,” said Mr. Williams. “That’s nothing; I want to know about the services.”
“It would take me an hour, morning and afternoon, from the office,” debated Arthur. “I wonder whether Mr. Galloway would let me go an hour earlier and stay an hour later to make up for it?”
“You can put the question to him. I dare say he will: especially as he is on terms of friendship with your father. I would give you—let me see,” deliberated the organist, falling into a musing33 attitude—“twelve pounds a quarter. Say fifty pounds a year; if you stay with me so long. And you should have nothing to do with the choristers: I’d practise them myself.”
Arthur’s face flushed. It was a great temptation: and the question flashed into his mind whether it would not be well to leave Mr. Galloway’s, as his prospects34 there appeared to be blighted35, and embrace this, if that gentleman declined to allow him the necessary hours of absence. Fifty pounds a year! “And,” he spoke unconsciously aloud, “there would be the copying besides.”
“Oh, that’s not much,” cried the organist. “That’s paid by the sheet.”
“I should like it excessively!” exclaimed Arthur.
“Well, just turn it over in your mind. But you must let me know at once, Channing; by to-morrow at the latest. If you cannot take it, I must find some one else.”
Arthur Channing went out of the cathedral, hardly knowing whether he stood on his head or his heels. “Constance said that God would help us!” was his grateful thought.
Such a whirlwind of noise! Arthur, when he reached the cloisters, found himself in the midst of the college boys, who were just let out of school. Leaping, shouting, pushing, scuffling, playing, contending! Arthur had not so very long ago been a college boy himself, and enjoyed the fun.
“How are you, old fellows—jolly?”
They gathered around him. Arthur was a favourite with them; had been always, when he was in the school. The elder boys loftily commanded off the juniors, who had to retire to a respectful distance.
“I say, Channing, there’s the stunningest go!” began Bywater, dancing a triumphant36 hornpipe. “You know Jupp? Well, he has been and sent in word to Williams that he is going to die, or something of that sort, and it’s necessary he should be off on the spree, to get himself well again. Old Jupp came this morning, just as college was over, and said it: and Williams is in the jolliest rage; going to be left without any one to take the organ. It will just pay him out, for being such a tyrant37 to us choristers.”
“Perhaps I am going to take it,” returned Arthur.
“You?—what a cram38!”
“It is not, indeed,” said Arthur. “I shall take it if I can get leave from Mr. Galloway. Williams has just asked me.”
“Is that true, Arthur?” burst forth39 Tom Channing, elbowing his way to the front.
“Now, Tom, should I say it if it were not true? I only hope Mr. Galloway will throw no difficulty in my way.”
“And do you mean to say that you are going to be cock over us choristers?” asked Bywater.
“No, thank you,” laughed Arthur. “Mr. Williams will best fill that honour. Bywater, has the mystery of the inked surplice come to light?”
“No, and be shot to it! The master’s in a regular way over it, though, and—”
“And what do you think?” eagerly interrupted Tod Yorke, whose face was ornamented40 with several shades of colour, blue, green, and yellow, the result of the previous day’s pugilistic encounter: “my brother Roland heard the master say he suspected one of the seniors.”
Arthur Channing looked inquiringly at Gaunt. The latter tossed his head haughtily41. “Roland Yorke must have made some mistake,” he observed to Arthur. “It is perfectly42 out of the question that the master can suspect a senior. I can’t imagine where the school could have picked up the notion.”
Gaunt was standing1 with Arthur, as he spoke, and the three seniors, Channing, Huntley, and Yorke, happened to be in a line facing them. Arthur regarded them one by one. “You don’t look very like committing such a thing as that, any one of you,” he laughed. “It is curious where the notion can have come from.”
“Such absurdity43!” ejaculated Gerald Yorke. “As if it were likely Pye would suspect one of us seniors! It’s not credible44.”
“Not at all credible that you would do it,” said Arthur. “Had it been the result of accident, of course you would have hastened to declare it, any one of you three.”
As Arthur spoke, he involuntarily turned his eyes on the sea of faces behind the three seniors, as if searching for signs in some countenance among them, by which he might recognize the culprit.
“My goodness!” uttered the senior boy, to Arthur. “Had any one of those three done such a thing—accident or no accident—and not declared it, he’d get his name struck off the rolls. A junior may be pardoned for things that a senior cannot.”
“Besides, there’d be the losing his chance of the seniorship, and of the exhibition,” cried one from the throng45 of boys in the rear.
“How are you progressing for the seniorship?” asked Arthur, of the three. “Which of you stands the best chance?”
“I think Channing does,” freely spoke up Harry46 Huntley.
“Why?”
“Because our progress is so equal that I don’t think one will get ahead of another, so that the choice cannot be made that way; and Channing’s name stands first on the rolls.”
“Who is to know if they’ll give us fair play and no humbug47?’ said Tom Channing.
“If they do, it will be what they have never given yet!” exclaimed Stephen Bywater. “Kissing goes by favour.”
“Ah, but I heard that the dean—”
At this moment a boy dashed into the throng, scattering48 it right and left. “Where are your eyes?” he whispered.
Close upon them was the dean. Arm in arm with him, in his hat and apron49, walked the Bishop50 of Helstonleigh. The boys stood aside and took off their trenchers. The dean merely raised his hand in response to the salutation—he appeared to be deep in thought; but the bishop nodded freely among them.
“I heard that the dean found fault, the last time the exhibition fell, and said favour should never be shown again, so long as he was Dean of Helstonleigh,” said Harry Huntley, when the clergy were beyond hearing, continuing the sentence he had been interrupted in. “I say that, with fair play, it will be Channing’s; failing Channing, it will be mine; failing me, it will be Yorke’s.”
“Now, then!” retorted Gerald Yorke. “Why should you have the chance before me, pray?”
Huntley laughed. “Only that my name heads yours on the rolls.”
Once in three years there fell an exhibition for Helstonleigh College school, to send a boy to Oxford51. It would be due the following Easter. Gaunt declined to compete for it; he would leave the school at Michaelmas; and it was a pretty generally understood thing that whichever of the three mentioned boys should be appointed senior in his place, would be presented with the exhibition. Channing and Yorke most ardently53 desired to gain it; both of them from the same motive—want of funds at home to take them to the university. If Tom Channing did not gain it, he was making up his mind to pocket pride, and go as a servitor. Yorke would not have done such a thing for the world; all the proud Yorke blood would be up in arms, at one of their name appearing as a servitor at Oxford. No. If Gerald Yorke should lose the exhibition, Lady Augusta must manage to screw out funds to send him. He and Tom Channing were alike designed for the Church. Harry Huntley had no such need: the son of a gentleman of good property, the exhibition was of little moment to him, in a pecuniary54 point of view; indeed, a doubt had been whispered amongst the boys, whether Mr. Huntley would allow Harry to take advantage of it, if he did gain it, for he was a liberal-minded and just man. Harry, of course, desired to be the successful one, for fame’s sake, just as ardently as did Channing and Yorke.
“I’m blessed if here isn’t that renowned55 functionary56, Jack57 Ketch!”
The exclamation58 came from young Galloway. Limping in at one of the cloister17 doors, came the cloister porter, a surly man of sixty, whose temper was not improved by periodical attacks of lumbago. He and the college boys were open enemies. The porter would have rejoiced in denying them the cloisters altogether; and nothing had gladdened his grim old heart like the discussion which was said to have taken place between the dean and chapter, concerning the propriety59 of shutting out the boys and their noise from the cloisters, as a playground. He bore an unfortunate name—Ketch—and the boys, you may be very sure, did not fail to take advantage of it, joining to it sundry60 embellishments, more pointed52 than polite.
He came up, a ragged61 gig-whip in his hand, which he was fond of smacking62 round the throng of boys. He had never yet ventured to touch one of them, and perhaps it was just as well for him that he had not.
“Now, you boys! be off, with your hullabaloo! Is this a decent noise to make around gentlefolks’ doors? You don’t know, may be, as Dr. Burrows63 is in town.”
Dr. Burrows happened to live in a house which had a door opening to the cloisters. The boys retorted. The worst they gave Mr. Ketch was “chaff;” but his temper could bear anything better than that, especially if it was administered by the senior boy.
“Dear me, who’s this?” began Gaunt, in a tone of ultra politeness. “Boys, do you see this gentleman who condescends64 to accost65 us? I really believe it is Sir John Ketch. What’s that in his hand?—a piece of rope? Surely, Mr. Ketch, you have not been turning off that unfortunate prisoner who was condemned66 yesterday? Rather hasty work, sir; was it not?”
Mr. Ketch foamed67. “I tell you what it is, sir. You be the senior boy, and, instead of restraining these wicked young reptiles68, you edges ‘em on! Take care, young gent, as I don’t complain of you to the dean. Seniors have been hoisted69 afore now.”
“Have they, really? Well, you ought to know, Mr. Calcraft. There’s the dean, just gone out of the cloisters; if you make haste, Calcraft, you’ll catch him up. Put your best foot foremost, and ask him if he won’t report Mr. Gaunt for punishment.”
The porter could have danced with rage; and his whip was smacking ominously70. He did not dare advance it too near the circle when the senior boy was present, or indeed, when any of the elder boys were.
“How’s your lumbago, Mr. Ketch?” demanded Stephen Bywater. “I’d advise you to get rid of that, before the next time you go on duty; it might be in your way, you know. Never was such a thing heard of, as for the chief toppler-off of the three kingdoms to be disabled in his limbs! What would you do? I’m afraid you’d be obliged to resign your post, and sink into private life.”
“Now I just vow71 to goodness, as I’ll do all I can to get these cloisters took from you boys,” shrieked72 old Ketch, clasping his hands together. “There’s insults as flesh and blood can’t stand; and, as sure as I’m living, I’ll pay you out for it.”
He turned tail and hobbled off, as he spoke, and the boys raised “three groans73 for Jack Ketch,” and then rushed away by the other entrance to their own dinners. The fact was, the porter had brought ill will upon himself, through his cross-grained temper. He had no right whatever to interfere74 between the boys and the cloisters; it was not his place to do so. The king’s scholars knew this; and, being spirited king’s scholars, as they were, would not stand it.
“Tom,” said Arthur Channing, “don’t say anything at home about the organ. Wait and see if I get it, first. Charley did not hear; he was ordered off with the juniors.”
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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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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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8
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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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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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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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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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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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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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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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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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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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