Jock McChesney had learned to judge an unknown prospective6 by glancing at his hall rug and stenographer7, which marks the fifth stage. He had learned to regard office boys with something less than white-hot hate. He had learned to let the other fellow do the talking. He had learned to condense a written report into twenty-five words. And he had learned that there was as much difference between the profession of advertising8 as he had thought of it and advertising as it really was, as there is between a steam calliope and a cathedral pipe organ.
In the big office of the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company they had begun to chuckle9 a bit over the McChesney solicitor's reports. Those same reports indicated that young McChesney was beginning to find the key to that maddening jumble10 of complexities11 known as human nature. Big Sam Hupp, who was the pet caged copy-writing genius of the place, used even to bring an occasional example of Jock's business badinage12 into the Old Man's office, and the two would grin in secret. As when they ran thus:
Pepsinale Manufacturing Company:
Mr. Bowser is the kind of gentleman who curses his subordinates in front of the whole office force. Very touchy13. Crumpled14 his advertising manager. Our chance to get at him is when he is in one of his rare good humors.
Or:
E.V. Kreiss Company:
Kreiss very difficult to reach. Permanent address seems to be Italy, Egypt, and other foreign ports. Occasionally his instructions come from Palm Beach.
At which there rose up before the reader a vision of Kreiss himself—baggy-eyed, cultivated English accent, interested in polo, fast growing contemptuous of things American.
Or still another:
Hodge Manufacturing Company:
Mr. Hodge is a very conservative gentleman. Sits still and lets others do the talking. Has gained quite a reputation for business acumen15 with this one attribute. Spent $500 last year. Holding his breath preparatory to taking another plunge16.
It was about the time that Jock McChesney had got over the novelty of paying for his own clothes, and had begun to talk business in a slightly patronizing way to his clever and secretly amused mother, Mrs. Emma McChesney, secretary of the T.A. Buck17 Featherloom Petticoat Company, that Sam Hupp noticed a rather cocky over-assurance in Jock's attitude toward the world in general. Whereupon he sent for him.
On Sam Hupp's broad flat desk stood an array of diminutive18 jars, and bottles, and tiny pots that would have shamed the toilette table of a musical comedy star's dressing-room. There were rose-tinted19 salves in white bottles. There were white creams in rose-tinted jars. There were tins of ointment20 and boxes of fragrant21 soap.
Jock McChesney, entering briskly, eyed the array in some surprise. Then he grinned, and glanced wickedly at Sam Hupp's prematurely22 bald head.
"No use, Mr. Hupp. They say if it's once gone it's gone. Get a toupee23."
"Shut up!" growled24 Sam Hupp, good-humoredly. "Stay in this game long enough and you'll be a hairless wonder yourself. Ten years ago the girls used to have to tie their hands or wear mittens25 to keep from running their white fingers through my waving silken locks. Sit down a minute."
Jock reached forward and took up a jar of cream. He frowned in thought. Then: "Thought I recognized this stuff. Mother uses it. I've seen it on the bathroom shelf."
"You bet she uses it," retorted Sam Hupp. "What's more, millions of other women will be using it in the next few years. This woman," he pointed26 to the name on the label, "has hit upon the real thing in toilette flub-dub. She's made a little fortune already, and if she don't look out she'll be rich. They've got quite a plant. When she started she used to put the stuff together herself over the kitchen stove. They say it's made of cottage cheese, stirred smooth and tinted pink. Well, anyway they're nationally known now—or will be when they start to advertise right."
"I've seen some of their stuff advertised—somewhere," interrupted Jock, "but I don't remember—"
"There you are. You see the head of this concern is a little bit frightened at the way she seems slated27 to become a lady cold cream magnate. They say she's scared pink for fear somebody will steal her recipes. She has a kid nephew who acts as general manager, and they're both on the job all the time. They say the lady herself looks like the spinster in a b'gosh drama. You can get a boy to look up your train schedule."
Train! Schedule! Across Jock McChesney's mind there flashed a vision of himself, alert, confident, brisk, taking the luxurious28 nine o'clock for Philadelphia. Or, maybe, the Limited to Chicago. Dashing down to the station in a taxi, of course. Strolling down the car aisle29 to take his place among those other thoroughbreds of commerce—men whose chamois gloves and walking sticks, and talk of golf and baseball and motoring spelled elegant leisure, even as their keen eyes and shrewd faces and low-voiced exchange of such terms as "stocks," and "sales" and "propositions" proclaimed them intent on bagging the day's business. Sam Hupp's next words brought him back to reality with a jerk.
"I think you have to change at Buffalo30. It gets you to Tonawanda in the morning. Rotten train."
"Tonawanda!" repeated Jock.
"Now listen, kid." Sam Hupp leaned forward, and his eyes behind their great round black-rimmed glasses were intent on Jock. "I'm not going to try to steer31 you. You think that advertising is a game. It isn't. There are those who think it's a science. But it isn't that either. It's white magic, that's what it is. And you can't learn it from books, any more than you can master trout32 fishing from reading 'The Complete Angler.'" He swung about and swept the beauty lotions33 before him in a little heap at the end of his desk. "Here, take this stuff. And get chummy with it. Eat it, if necessary; learn it somehow."
Jock stood up, a little dazed. "But, what!—How?—I mean—"
Sam Hupp glanced up at him. "Sending you down there isn't my idea. It's the Old Man's. He's got an idea that you—" He paused and put a detaining hand on Jock McChesney's arm. "Look here. You think I know a little something about advertising, don't you?"
"You!" laughed Jock. "You're the guy who put the whitening in the Great White Way. Everybody knows you were the—"
"M-m-m, thanks," interrupted Sam Hupp, a little dryly. "Let me tell you something, young 'un. I've got what you might call a thirty-horse-power mind. I keep it running on high all the time, with the muffler cut out, and you can hear me coming for miles. But the Old Man,"—he leaned forward impressively,—"the Old Man, boy, has the eighty-power kind, built like a watch—no smoke, no dripping, and you can't even hear the engine purr. But when he throws her open! Well, he can pass everything on the road. Don't forget that." He turned to his desk again and reached for a stack of papers and cuts. "Good luck to you. If you want any further details you can get 'em from Hayes." He plunged34 into his work.
There arose in Jock McChesney's mind that instinct of the man in his hour of triumph—the desire to tell a woman of his greatness. He paused a second outside Sam Hupp's office, turned, and walked quickly down the length of the great central room. He stopped before a little glass door at the end, tapped lightly, and entered.
Grace Galt, copy-writer, looked up, frowning a little. Then she smiled. Miss Galt had a complete layout on the desk before her—scrap books, cuts, copy, magazines. There was a little smudge on the end of her nose. Grace Galt was writing about magnetos. She was writing about magnetos in a way to make you want to drop your customer, or your ironing, or your game, and go downtown and buy that particular kind of magneto at once. Which is the secretest part of the wizardry of advertising copy. To look at Grace Galt you would have thought that she should have been writing about the rose-tinted jars in Jock McChesney's hands instead of about such things as ignition, and insulation35, and ball bearings, and induction36 windings37. But it was Grace Galt's gift that she could take just such hard, dry, technical facts and weave them into a story that you followed to the end. She could make you see the romance in condensers38 and transformers. She had the power that caused the reader to lose himself in the charm of magnetic poles, and ball bearings, and high-tension sparks.
"Just dropped in to say good-by," said Jock, very casually39. "Going to run up-state to see the Athena Company—toilette specialties40, you know. It ought to be a big account."
"Athena?" Grace Galt regarded him absently, her mind still on her work. Then her eyes cleared. "You mean at Tonawanda? And they're sending you! Well!" She put out a congratulatory hand. Jock gripped it gratefully.
"Not so bad, eh?" he boasted.
"Bad!" echoed Grace Galt. Her face became serious. "Do you realize that there are men in this office who have been here for five years, six years, or even more, and who have never been given a chance to do anything but stenography41, or perhaps some private secretarying?"
"I know it," agreed Jock. But there was no humbleness42 in his tone. He radiated self-satisfaction. He seemed to grow and expand before her eyes. A little shadow of doubt crept across Grace Galt's expression of friendly interest.
"Are you scared," she asked; "just the least bit?"
Jock flushed a little. "Well," he confessed ruefully, "I don't mind telling you I am—a little."
"Good!"
"Good?"
"Yes. The head of that concern is a woman. That's one reason why they didn't send me, I suppose. I—I'd like to say something, if you don't mind."
"Anything you like," said Jock graciously.
"Well, then, don't be afraid of being embarrassed and fussed. If you blush and stammer43 a little, she'll like it. Play up the coy stuff."
"The coy stuff!" echoed Jock. "I hadn't thought much about my attitude toward the—er—the lady,"—a little stiffly.
"Well, you'd better," answered Miss Galt crisply. She put out her hand in much the same manner as Sam Hupp had used. "Good luck to you. I'll have to ask you to go now. I'm trying to make this magneto sound like something without which no home is complete, and to make people see that there's as much difference between it and every other magneto as there is between the steam shovels44 that dug out the Panama Canal and the junk that the French left there—" She stopped. Her eyes took on a far-away look. Her lips were parted slightly. "Why, that's not a bad idea—that last. I'll use that. I'll—"
'With a jolt45 Jock realized she had forgotten all about him'
She began to scribble46 rapidly on the sheet of paper before her. With a jolt Jock McChesney realized that she had forgotten all about him. He walked quietly to the door, opened it, shut it very quietly, then made for the nearest telephone. He knew one woman he could count on to be proud of him. He gave his number, waited a little eager moment, then:
"Featherloom Petticoat Company? Mrs. McChesney." And waited again. Then he smiled.
"You needn't sound so official," he laughed; "it's only your son. Listen. I"—he took on an elaborate carelessness of tone—"I've got to take a little jump out of town. On business. Oh, a day or so. Rather important though. I'll have time to run up to the flat and throw a few things into a bag. I'll tell you, I really ought to keep a bag packed down here. In case of emergency, you know. What? It's the Athena Toilette Preparations Company. Well, I should say it is! I'll wire you. You bet. Thanks. My what? Oh, toothbrush. No. Good-by."
So it was that at three-ten Jock McChesney took himself, his hopes, his dread47, and his smart walrus48 bag aboard a train that halted and snuffed and backed, and bumped and halted with maddening frequency. But it landed him at last in a little town bearing the characteristics of all American little towns. It was surprisingly full of six-cylinder49 cars, and five and ten-cent stores, and banks with Doric columns, and paved streets.
After he had registered at the hotel, and as he was cleaning up a bit, he passed an amused eye over the bare, ugly, fusty little hotel bedroom. But somehow, as he stood in the middle of the room, a graceful50, pleasing figure of youth and confidence, the smile faded. Towel in hand he surveyed the barrenness of it. He stared at the impossible wall paper, at the battered51 furniture, the worn carpet. He sniffed52 the stuffy53 smell of—what was that smell, anyhow?—straw, and matting, and dust, and the ghost-odor of hundreds who had occupied the room before him. It came over him with something of a shock that this same sort of room had been his mother's only home in the ten years she had spent on the road as a traveling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. This was what she had left in the morning. To this she had come back at night. As he stared ahead of him there rose before him a mental picture of her—the brightness of her, the sunniness, the indomitable energy, and pluck, and courage. With a sudden burst of new determination he wadded the towel into a moist ball, flung it at the washstand, seized hat, coat, and gloves, and was off down the hall. So it was with something of his mother's splendid courage in his heart, but with nothing of her canny54 knowledge in his head, Jock McChesney fared forth55 to do battle with the merciless god Business.
It was ten-thirty of a brilliant morning just two days later that a buoyant young figure swung into an elevator in the great office building that housed the Berg, Shriner Advertising Company. Just one more grain of buoyant swing and the young man's walk might have been termed a swagger. As it was, his walrus bag just saved him.
Stepping out of the lift he walked, as from habit, to the little unlettered door which admitted employes to the big, bright, inner office. But he did not use it. Instead he turned suddenly and walked down the hall to the double door which led into the reception room. He threw out his legs stiffly and came down rather flat-footed, the way George Cohan does when he's pleased with himself in the second act.
"Hel-lo, Mack!" he called out jovially56.
Mack, the usher57, so called from his Machiavellian58 qualities, turned to survey the radiant young figure before him.
"Good morning, Mr. McChesney," he made answer smoothly59. Mack never forgot himself. His keen eye saw the little halo of self-satisfaction that hovered60 above Jock McChesney's head. "A successful trip, I see."
Jock McChesney laughed a little, pleased, conscious laugh. "Well, raw-thah!" he drawled, and opened the door leading into the main office. He had been loath61 to lose one crumb62 of the savor63 of it.
''Well, raw-thah!' he drawled'
Still smiling, he walked to his own desk, with a nod here and there, dropped his bag, took off coat and hat, selected a cigarette, tapped it smartly, lighted it, and was off down the big room to the little cubby-hole at the other end. But Sam Hupp's plump, keen, good-humored face did not greet him as he entered. The little room was deserted65. Frowning, Jock sank into the empty desk chair. He cradled his head in his hands, tilted66 the chair, pursed his mouth over the slender white cylinder and squinted67 his eyes up toward the lazy blue spirals of smoke—the very picture of content and satisfaction.
Hupp was in attending some conference in the Old Man's office, of course. He wished they'd hurry. The business of the week was being boiled-down there. Those conferences were great cauldrons into which the day's business, or the week's, was dumped, to be boiled, simmered, stirred, skimmed, cooled. Jock had never been privileged to attend one of these meetings. Perhaps by this time next week he might have a spoon in the stirring too—
There came the murmur68 of voices as a door was opened. The voices came nearer. Then quick footsteps. Jock recognized them. He rose, smiling. Sam Hupp, vibrating electric energy, breezed in.
"Oh—hello!" he said, surprised. Jock's smile widened to a grin. "You back?"
"Hello, Hupp," he said, coolly. It was the first time that he had omitted the prefix69. "You just bet I'm back."
There flashed across Sam Hupp's face a curious little look. The next instant it was gone.
"Well," said Jock, and took a long breath.
"Mr. Berg wants to see you."
Hupp plunged into his work.
"Me? The Old Man wants to see me?"
"Yes," snapped Hupp shortly. Then, in a new tone, "Look here, son. If he says—" He stopped, and turned back to his work again.
"If he says what?"
"Nothing. Better run along."
"What's the hurry? I want to tell you about—"
"Better tell him."
"Oh, all right," said Jock stiffly. If that was the way they treated a fellow who had turned his first real trick, why, very well. He flung out of the little room and made straight for the Old Man's office.
Seated at his great flat table desk, Bartholomew Berg did not look up as Jock entered. This was characteristic of the Old Man. Everything about the chief was deliberate, sure, unhurried. He finished the work in hand as though no other person stood there waiting his pleasure. When at last he raised his massive head he turned his penetrating70 pale blue eyes full on Jock. Jock was conscious of a little tremor71 running through him. People were apt to experience that feeling when that steady, unblinking gaze was turned upon them. And yet it was just the clear, unwavering look with which Bartholomew Berg, farmer boy, had been wont72 to gaze out across the fresh-plowed fields to the horizon beyond which lay the city he dreamed about.
"Tell me your side of it," said Bartholomew Berg tersely73.
"All of it?" Jock's confidence was returning.
"Till I stop you."
"Well," began Jock. And standing there at the side of the Old Man's desk, his legs wide apart, his face aglow74, his hands on his hips75, he plunged into his tale.
"It started off with a bang from the minute I walked into the office of the plant and met Snyder, the advertising manager. We shook hands and sparked—just like that." He snapped thumb and finger. "What do you think! We belong to the same frat! He's '93. Inside of ten minutes he and I were Si-washing around like mad. He introduced me to his aunt. I told her who I was, and all that. But I didn't start off by talking business. We got along from the jump. They both insisted on showing me through the place. I—well,"—he laughed a little ruefully,—"there's something about being shown through a factory that sort of paralyzes my brain. I always feel that I ought to be asking keen, alert, intelligent questions like the ones Kipling always asks, or the Japs when they're taken through the Stock Yards. But I never can think of any. Well, we didn't talk business much. But I could see that they were interested. They seemed to,"—he faltered76 and blushed a little,—"to like me, you know. I played golf with Snyder that afternoon and he beat me. Won two balls. The next morning I found there's been a couple of other advertising men there. And while I was talking to Snyder—he was telling me about the time he climbed up and muffled77 the chapel78 bell—that fellow Flynn, of the Dowd Agency, came in. Snyder excused himself, and talked to him for—oh, half an hour, perhaps. But that was all. He was back again in no time. After that it looked like plain sailing. We got along wonderfully. When I left I said, 'I expect to know you both better—'"
"I guess," interrupted the Old Man slowly, "that you'll know them better all right." He reached out with one broad freckled79 hand and turned back the page of a desk memorandum80. "The Athena account was given to the Dowd Advertising Agency yesterday."
It took Jock McChesney one minute—one long, sickening minute—to grasp the full meaning of it all. He stared at the massive figure before him, his mouth ludicrously open, his eyes round, his breath for the moment suspended. Then, in a queer husky voice:
"D'you mean—the Dowd—but—they couldn't—"
"I mean," said Bartholomew Berg, "that you've scored what the dramatic critics call a personal hit; but that doesn't get the box office anything."
"But, Mr. Berg, they said—"
"Sit down a minute, boy." He waved one great heavy hand toward a near-by chair. His eyes were not fixed81 on Jock. They gazed out of the window toward the great white tower toward which hundreds of thousands of eyes were turned daily—the tower, four-faced but faithful.
"McChesney, do you know why you fell down on that Athena account?"
"Because I'm an idiot," blurted82 Jock. "Because I'm a double-barreled, corn-fed, hand-picked chump and—"
"That's one reason," drawled the Old Man grimly. "But it's not the chief one. The real reason why you didn't land that account was because you're too darned charming."
"Charming!" Jock stared.
"Just that. Personality's one of the biggest factors in business to-day. But there are some men who are so likable that it actually counts against them. The client he's trying to convince is so taken with him that he actually forgets the business he represents. We say of a man like that that he is personality plus. Personality is like electricity, McChesney. It's got to be tamed to be useful."
"But I thought," said Jock, miserably83, "that the idea was not to talk business all the time."
"You've got it," agreed Berg. "But you must think it all the time. Every minute. It's got to be working away in the back of your head. You know it isn't always the biggest noise that gets the biggest result. The great American hen yields a bigger income than the Steel Trust. Look at Miss Galt. When we have a job that needs a woman's eye do we send her? No. Why? Because she's too blame charming. Too much personality. A man just naturally refuses to talk business to a pretty woman unless she's so smart that—"
"My mother," interrupted Jock, suddenly, and then stopped, surprised at himself.
"Your mother," said Bartholomew Berg slowly, "is one woman in a million. Don't ever forget that. They don't turn out models like Emma McChesney more than once every blue moon."
Jock got to his feet slowly. He felt heavy, old. "I suppose," he began, "that this ends my—my advertising career."
"Ends it!" The Old Man stood up and put a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "It only begins it. Unless you want to lie down and quit. Do you?"
"Quit!" cried Jock McChesney. "Quit! Not on your white space!"
"Good!" said Bartholomew Berg, and took Jock McChesney's hand in his own great friendly grasp.
An instinct as strong as that which had made him blatant84 in his hour of triumph now caused him to avoid, in his hour of defeat, the women-folk before whom he would fain be a hero. He avoided Grace Galt all that long, dreary85 afternoon. He thought wildly of staying down-town for the evening, of putting off the meeting with his mother, of avoiding the dreaded86 explanations, excuses, confessions87.
But when he let himself into the flat at five-thirty the place was very quiet, except for Annie, humming in a sort of nasal singsong of content in the kitchen.
He flicked88 on the light in the living-room. A new magazine had come. It lay on the table, its bright cover staring up invitingly90. He ran through its pages. By force of habit he turned to the back pages. Ads started back at him—clothing ads, paint ads, motor ads, ads of portable houses, and vacuum cleaners—and toilette preparations. He shut the magazine with a vicious slap.
He flicked off the light again, for no reason except that he seemed to like the dusk. In his own bedroom it was very quiet.
He turned on the light there, too, then turned it off. He sat down at the edge of his bed. How was it in the stories? Oh, yes! The cub64 always started out on an impossibly difficult business stunt91 and came back triumphant92, to be made a member of the firm at once.
A vision of his own roseate hopes and dreams rose up before him. It grew very dark in the little room, then altogether dark. Then an impudent93 square of yellow from a light turned on in the apartment next door flung itself on the bedroom floor. Jock stared at it moodily94.
A key turned in the lock. A door opened and shut. A quick step. Then: "Jock!" A light flashed in the living-room.
Jock sat up suddenly. He opened his mouth to answer. There issued from his throat a strange and absurd little croak95.
"Jock! Home?"
"Yes," answered Jock, and straightened up. But before he could flick89 on his own light his mother stood in the doorway96, a tall, straight, buoyant figure.
"I got your wire and—Why, dear! In the dark! What—"
"Must have fallen asleep, I guess," muttered Jock. Somehow he dreaded to turn on the lights.
And then, very quietly, Emma McChesney came in. She found him, there in the dark, as surely as a mother bear finds her cubs97 in a cave. She sat down beside him at the edge of the bed and put her hand on his shoulder, and brought his head down gently to her breast. And at that the room, which had been a man's room with its pipe, its tobacco jar, its tie rack filled with cravats98 of fascinating shapes and hues99, became all at once a boy's room again, and the man sitting there with straight, strong shoulders and his little air of worldliness became in some miraculous100 way a little boy again.
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1
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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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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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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gulpy
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| 多旋涡的，遍布裂口（或深坑）的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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prematurely
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toupee
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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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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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lotions
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| n.洗液，洗剂，护肤液( lotion的名词复数 ) | |
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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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insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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condensers
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| n.冷凝器( condenser的名词复数 )；（尤指汽车发动机内的）电容器 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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specialties
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| n.专门，特性，特别；专业( specialty的名词复数 )；特性；特制品；盖印的契约 | |
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stenography
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| n.速记，速记法 | |
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humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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machiavellian
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| adj.权谋的，狡诈的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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89
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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91
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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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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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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96
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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