“But, hombrote, thou art a mouthful, and the lake is brave. Of me it counts not, but much eye to this box. That is the far-looker that makes the pictures, and if it went to the bogas or were even wet, how couldst thou answer?”
“There is no care, Excellency. More than that I am small, in this lake I was born, and now I am made to it. I will not drown your Excellency, nor more wet ye than must be when the lake is so. Trust me, viracocha, to put you to the island safely. And if not then name me Bobo.”
Well, I had to get across, and that was all there was to it. The island was there, I here, the miles of angry water between, and for bridge, only this twelve-year-old Aymará boy with his water-logged balsa. I looked out at the whitecaps, then at the unlikely craft, then in Pablo’s eyes.
“Ba-le, it is well. Thou hast the heart of a man. Hold her level for the box.”
[334]
I waded2 out through the mud and rushes, waist-deep in the icy water, holding the precious camera box on my head, and between us we got it safely stowed abaft3 the beanpole mast. Then I scrambled4 aboard as best might be, with Pablo’s helpful hand in my collar, for the mud had a trap-like clutch on my legs. Bidding me squat5 forward, the boy settled back on his knees and began to ply6 his pole. The loftiest great lake in the world has no timber on its shores, and with the mighty7 forests of the Yungas five days off no one is going to think of paddles. Plain contorted poles of the iron cupi are far more easily brought over the Andean passes, and they have to suffice.
Slowly, with Pablo poling into the mud behind, the clumsy balsa slid through the totora, whispering as it went with its brother rushes—for itself was simply a great bundle of totora, totora bound, with totora sail and sheets. There was no other thing about it; no nail nor cord nor wood, save only the cupi mast. The mossy tangle9 of yachu, which feeds the cattle of Titi-caca that graze all day shoulder deep in the lake, hampered10 the soggy prow11 and fastened upon Pablo’s stick. Sometimes, with that and the grasping mud, I looked to see him dragged back overboard. But he wagged[335] the pole sharply and held fast with his knees, and always shook free. Decidedly his eyes were right—the boy was no mouse.
In ten minutes we pushed our nose through the last totoral, and were in the open. The wind butted12 the harder in our face; the waves—no longer tamed by the rushen breakwater of the inshore—came running at us like a stampede. The slow prow kicked them and stumbled on them and pounded them into a coarse rain that pelted13 hard and icy. I wriggled14 out of my coat of oiled horsehide and bound it over the camera box to protect that from the spray—for it had been well strained by a fall of the pack mule15 in crossing the pass of Sorata, and was no longer so waterproof16 as might be wished. Pablo could now no more touch bottom; and kneeling a little higher and a little farther astern he kept his pole ish-ishing through the water, paddle fashion.
“Give me,” I said, after watching awhile the play of the round boy-chest. “Thou art too light.”
But Pablo sent down his stick the harder—so forcibly, indeed, that the effort pulled that corner of his mouth awry—and grunted17:
[336]
“No, viracocha; leave me. Your Excellency knows the paddle—that I can see by the way you sit. But this is different. Only we of the lake know its ways, which are tricky18. See, pues!” he sputtered19, as a bucketful of water slapped us in the face and left both gasping20. “For here all the winds quarrel from every way at once—as if pushed by him who was once alcalde of Paucarcolla.” Pablo crossed himself, thereby21 “dropping a stitch” in his paddling.
“What? The—er—him that the Inquisition pursued?”
“Si, viracocha, that same. And yonder headland is where he disappeared in the lake, for the which none care to tarry there, since it is well known that he was the devil in person,” and Pablo crossed himself again.
As we cleared the Punta del Diablo the wind smote22 us with renewed force, and with every dip a fresh deluge23 drenched24 us to the bone. But for a few moments I did not think much of that. With the recession of the headland the long line of the Bolivian Andes came marching into view, and I suppose that just so wondrous25 a sight is nowhere else. Captained by the peak that overhangs Sorata, the giant file stood marshaled seemingly upon the very beach of[337] the vast blue lake, itself white with that unspeakable whiteness such as befalls no other thing on earth than a far peak of eternal snow high up a clear sky. Such a rank of Titans—from incalculable Illampu and his 25,000 feet, off to where his rival, Illimani, seemed soaring out of the lake a hundred miles away! It was enough to make one forget a wet skin—and even the possibility of a wet camera box. How they possessed26 the firmament27, these sublimated28 presences! And how the cumuli, puffing29 up from the tropic forests of the Beni, tangled30 about their feet and wreathed upward and dulled when their snow-whiteness lapped the whiter snow of those proud crests31!
A sharp “Umpss!” from Pablo recalled me to shiver and to look back. A sudden flaw in the wind had caught his stroke with the full weight of the balsa, and the ironwood pole had snapped under the cross strain. Pablo looked anxious, but said very evenly:
“Pss! We must break it off, viracocha, and use each an end; for in this wind if we keep not our head, even a balsa will not last. Being angry, the lake pounds as one with his fist.”
Indeed, it was more like that than anything[338] else—and a most reiterant fist, too. Nowhere else is there such a “chop” as on Lake Titi-caca when the winds awake; and I have seen those who have weathered every sea and who laughed at the English channel turned deathly seasick32 on one of the wallowing little steamers that run from Puno to Chililaya. Now we were kicked about with battering33 thumps34 that seemed like to pound our bundle of rushes asunder35. Pablo was straining and twisting at the broken pole, to part the wiry fibers36. I chopped at it with my heavy, keen bowie, and at last the stubborn strands37 yielded; and so each had a stick some five feet long. I knelt up and drove mine fiercely down the side while Pablo, astern, kept stroke. We were at it none too soon. At one time I half fancied that we never would get her head to the wind, for the soggy craft answered slowly to our efforts with these pitiful paddles.
For some minutes we tugged39 in silence. At an altitude of 12,500 feet in Peru one needs all one’s breath for work—even the Serrano lad did. I glanced over my shoulder at him now and then. His lips were shut square, his serious dark eyes seemed to be taking note of everything, and the slender muscles of his arms and chest—clear drawn40 on the drenched shirt—played[339] smoothly41. An athlete myself, and particularly taught in the paddle, I began to feel a respect which was half awe42 for this manful stripling who toiled43 so soberly and shrewdly where only the best foreign lungs can endure any exertion44 whatever. And, at last, little as there was breath to spare, I could not help grunting45, “Estás lo mas hombrote!”
Pablo’s big white teeth shone for an instant in a sober smile.
“So must we,” he answered calmly. “For here is much to do, nor room for lazies—for small though they be. When I was the half of this, my father had me to help on the balsa; and once, even then, I took it to Puno, he being sick.”
Then silence fell upon us again for a time, and we poled away doggedly46. But presently there seemed to me something wrong in Pablo’s quiet, and I twisted my head to look. His stick was going steadily47 as a machine, but in his face was what made me call out sharply, “What thing?”
“More wind,” he said, concisely49. “Either to get to the island before it, or”—and the Spanish shrug50 said the rest for him.
We did not get to the island before it.[340] Two hundred yards away the gale51 struck us and flattened52 the balsa into the waves and the waves into the level, and was like to strip us bodily from our soaked craft. After that nothing was very clear, for the winds and waves washed us fore8 and aft, and it was hard to say which was the colder and more pitiless; and one saw ill for that bitter pelting53 in the face, and the heart reeled with overwork to feed the leaping lungs. Bent54 forward till our heads almost touched the balsa, our knees wedged hard on the tiny roll which served for gunwale, we dug away mechanically with those nightmares of paddles that would carry us nowhere. Once, when my heart would work no more, I turned idly to Pablo. His face was gray with effort, but so sweet and composed that I shouted out, half petulantly55:
“Ea! Hast thou not fear, hijito?”
“How not?” he screamed back up the wind. “Am I a fool, not to fear? We shall never come there, perhaps. Only if the saints will! Promise a silver candlestick, se?or!”
But in my eyes were a blue eyed baby and her mother, five thousand miles away, and for that, my temper was more to fight, with shut teeth, than to be vowing56 candlesticks.[341] And just then it struck me to think, in that silly maundering of the mind in stress, how peaceful Pablo would look when they should pick us up, and how they would add: “Umpss! But these gringos are of ill temper, no?”
For half an hour, perhaps, we doubled to our sticks, and still the gale smote us, and still our marrow57 ached with the chill of the spray. There was no complaint of Pablo. He accepted fate, but still worked like a man—poised and steady in the face of death. If we were to end there, he would be found with the little chapped fists still clenching58 the stick. Once a motion swept on me to spring back and hug him and say:
“Son, it counts not. Let us meet it in peace. Thou’rt fit to die with!”
But then again the blue eyes came up in the mist, and my fingers cracked on the paddle and my teeth grated. And Pablo, as if he understood, gave me a grave, sweet nod. Further I noted59 that he drew some small object from his pouch60 and seemed to breathe on it.
It was so near! In a little eddy61 of the wind I shook the water from my eyes and peered ahead. The northern point of the island was not fifty yards away—and we were drifting past. It slipped and slipped,[342] for all I dug savagely62 at the paddle and Pablo quickened his stroke with the first groan64 I had heard from him. Our tired arms forgot their cramps65, our lungs their “stitches” in a wild strain—and still that dark shore kept drawing to our right. Ah, for the old paddle that used to spin the birch canoe! These accursed sticks—why, one might as well paddle with a poker66!
I stared at him stupidly an instant. “Thou hast the power,” he cried. “Break it! Break it!”
Then I knew, and leaped upon the ironwood mast as a wolf at the throat of a fawn68, and clenched69 it and wrenched70 and beat, and shoved and twisted and tugged, and with arms and knees tore it loose from its stepping in the balsa. It well nigh racked the rushen raft in twain, and we noticed that the impact of the waves no longer shook the balsa as a unit, but wabbled and see-sawed it.
I caught the cupi under my left arm and clinched71 tight the “sheets” of braided totora around the totora sail, till that was bound in shape something like a closed umbrella, and springing forward to my station stood and plied72 this new paddle with frantic[343] energy. It was unwieldy and floppy73, but it had more resistance than the pole, and slowly—so slowly that at first we dared not believe it—the sullen74 craft began to answer. New hope came in us, and we shouted “Arre! Drive!” and bent till the muscles creaked. Now, even in Pablo’s face, was the fierce light of combat.
And so we made the shore. In the lee of the point the water was so still that it seemed a yard lower than its surrounding level. A lone75 tuft of totora grew near the shore, and when we came to it I fell on my face along the balsa and clutched the pithy76 stalks; and there we lay at that frail77 anchorage till heart and lungs came back in me. Then, poling nearer, I stepped over the side and landed the camera; and came back and gathered in my arms a limp bundle, whose head drooped78 upon my shoulder, and so waded heavily up the beach of Sicuya.
II.
There was nothing on the island for a good fire—indeed, in all that vast plateau, so lofty and so cold, one learns the art of shivering to perfection, for fuel is enormously scarce. After an hour’s work I had assembled a tiny heap of dry rushes from the beach, and bunch grass and a few[344] straggling bushlets. The tinder, in its oil-cloth pouch, with the flint and steel, was dry, and presently we had a swift, ephemeral blaze. It was nothing to dry us, but served briefly79 to toast our hands and feet and take off a little of that ghastly chill. The camera was all right, and I resumed the horsehide coat, buttoning it to my chin to pay for the woolen80 shirt which I had lent Pablo. As the darkness came on our poor little fire died away. We scraped a trough in the gravel81 and lay down in it spoon fashion, my arms around Pablo’s chest, and so wore out the night.
We were chilled and stiff and half inanimate when the sluggard82 sun peeped over the far peaks of Apolobamba, and got up like old men. But even the light was cheering; and presently a soft glow began to tame the bitter air and we ran clumsily and danced about and swung our arms till the blood went free again in its forgotten channels. Pablo was all right now—a boy is a hard thing to kill, and particularly an outdoors boy—and chatted leisurely83 and calmly, as was his way.
“But to eat!” I broke in on one of his stories, when we were fairly limbered up in body and mind. “Is there gente on the island?”
[345]
“Nobody. I think the Ancients were here once, for up yonder I have seen a strong wall. But none come here now—not even seeking treasure, which must be here.”
“Bother the treasure! What we want now is food, even if it were only llama meat; for in purity of truth I’m falling with hunger. Let us hunt.”
Ducks there were, by the hundred; and mudhens, and dippers, and flamingoes, and almost every other aquatic85 fowl86, among the rushes in the eastern cove. With the shotgun we could have mowed87 down a bushel of them—but the shotgun was lying with my sleeping bag and rawhide88 muleback trunks over in a hut on the mainland. Well, with the six-shooter we could count on one bird, anyhow; and I drew it and began to rub off last night’s rust1.
“But wait me,” said the little balsero. “It is better not to frighten them, for we may need more than one. With this there is no noise.”
As he spoke89 he unwound the braided sling90 which bound his long black hair. It was the immemorial weapon of his people—even so I had taken it from the skulls91 of[346] mummies of his ancestors far antedating92 the Conquest. Pablo gathered some smooth pebbles94 from the beach and began creeping toward the cove, sheltering himself whenever a bunch of totora offered. The water-fowl began to edge out, and a few nervous ducks rose. But the boy knew his business and kept on at the same gait. Suddenly straightening up, he whirled his right arm thrice around, and even from where I was I could hear a twang, and then the sh-oo-oo of the hurtling pebble93.
There was a commotion95 among the birds, and a great white swan stretched and half rose from the water and dropped back in a shower of spray. Pablo was already in the water, keeping out of sight all but his head, and in a couple of rods that also disappeared. The swan suddenly redoubled its struggles, beating one wing till the water foamed96, but without progress. Then it began to drift shoreward, still fighting; and in a moment I saw a dark object rise just in front of it. The swan saw, too, and aimed a stunning97 blow with its wing. But the head had already vanished and the screaming bird kept moving shoreward despite his struggles. Then I waited so long that it seemed impossible that one should so endure under water, when the swan’s violent[347] pecking at his breast relieved me. Pablo, to keep out of the way of that heavy wing and beak98, was holding the great bird firmly down upon the crown of his head, and when it was needful to take a breath he could thus get his nose out of water without seriously exposing himself. It was when he should come where the water was but a couple of feet deep that trouble would begin, and already I judged that he was lying upon his back and kicking along the mud. Time after time a dark fist came up to grapple that snake-like neck, but the bird was too smart and the captor got only savage63 bites for his pains. I ran out to help, and the swan met me with a peck that took a morsel99 off my hand; but a back sweep of the bowie sent the head flying twenty feet, and after a little more flopping100 the great fowl fell limp. The missile from the sling had shattered his left wing.
Well, when Pablo had warmed himself in the scorching101 sun, and we had gathered another bunch of dry weeds and more or less plucked the bird and half toasted thin strips of it in the embers, and devoured102 each a wolf’s share, we felt better. Perhaps we swallowed quite as much ashes as meat, and salt would have helped it—but it was a wonderful banquet, anyhow. We washed[348] it down with drafts from the ill-tasting lake, and I dried a brown-paper cigarette on a sunny rock until it was smokable, and for a while we wallowed in the hot sun and watched the drift of shadows on Illampu, which had snared103 all the clouds from the sky.
“Pues, the pictures. And then, to get back to shore,” I said at last, getting up reluctantly. Pablo was greatly interested in that wonderful glass in its shining tube, and marveled at the unkinking of the tripod and how the whole artful box opened and swelled104 at a touch. We carried it to the top of the hill, and I made my pictures and showed him the inverted105 gem106 of color on the ground glass and explained it all to him in the formula I learned long ago for Indian friends, to whom one has to adapt one’s own point of view. Then he took me to the ruin—some fallen houses and a strong wall of great rocks wonderfully squared and carved, and we made a picture there, with tattered107 Pablo standing108 beside the noble handiwork of his fathers. Unhappily, the plate fell a victim to the abominable109 dampness of Lima.
“If we had but a spade,” sighed Pablo, who went scuffing110 his toes in the rubbish of the forgotten rooms. “What says the viracocha?[349] Shall we come back one day and dig here? For surely there will be treasure. Over yonder, toward that island, is where they say the Incas sunk the chain of Huascar, that the Spaniards might not find it. And many have looked for it, and some even talk to drain the lake.”
“I can see them draining Titi-caca! But come, what was this chain of Huascar?” I asked, as seriously as if this were all news to me.
“Mppss! It was of gold, then—pure gold. For when Huascar Inca was born his father, Huayna Capac, ordered made this chain of gold, three hundred paces long and the fatness of my thumb, that the people might dance holding it. Ay, if one might find it! Sometimes, looking over the balsa, I have thought to see that shining on the bottom, but then it was only a boga turning to the sun.”
“Ea, and what wouldst thou, hijito, finding this chain of Huascar?”
“Yo? Mpps, Vueséncia, I would—mppss—I would buy the balsa of Jeraldo, which is very good; and three pigs and a cow for my mother, and a net; and—and—and—boots like those of your Excellency——”
“Good! And I hope thou’lt find it. I mind me that an Inca, Don Garcilaso de la[350] Vega, who wrote a book two hundred and ninety years ago—sabes book? Well, it is much paper tied together—much spoiled paper, with words on it. And this Inca said that the chain of Huascar was thrown into the little lake in the valley of Orcos, which the Spaniards did indeed try to drain. But Garcilaso said many things—particularly in December when the days are long—and I fancy thou’rt as like to find the chain in this lake as in any other.”
“But the paper, se’or, how can it tell these things?”
“Pues, because we make paper that talks—not out loud, but telling you things without a sound. And sometimes it knows how to lie, just like people.”
“Perhaps it was not Don Garcilaso’s fault, then—it can be that he got that kind of paper. For I know the chain is in this lake here, of Titi-caca, since my grandfather told me, and he knew from very long ago. He was taught in all the stories of our fathers, and he gave me this auqui of old for a charm. Perhaps for that we were not swallowed by the lake.”
So saying, Pablo drew from his left-hand pouch a precious little fetich of silver, ages old, for there is no mistaking the prehistoric111 handiwork of Peru. It was in rude human[351] form, and not cast, but hollow, beaten out and cupped and soldered112 so cleverly that one could scarce find the joint113.
“Hola! He was an abuelo worth having. Come, I’ll give thee ten soles for it, for I shall need an auqui myself if I am to stay in these lands of ill luck.”
But Pablo shook his head, though I am positive he never had seen so much money in one pile before as the ten silver dollars in my hand.
“Ha-ni-wa!” he said. “For it is ill to sell these things, which are sacred.” He breathed on the image and tucked it carefully back in his chuspa.
The balsa, still nodding at the rushen cable, was soon repaired by Pablo’s apt hands with a few withes of totora. We stepped the mast again, as well as might be, in its torn socket114, hoisted115 the rush sail, and drew slowly out in a light breeze. It was a very different passage from that of yesterday, and we sprawled116 lazily along the balsa, looking back now to the vast white peaks, and now to the weedy shore ahead. We crept through the outer fringe of totora, passing far to the left of a little stone hut that seemed built upon the very water a mile from shore. A few sad cattle lay about it, only their heads out of water; and nearer[352] us, on a submerged bar, a gristly pig seemed undecided whether he had better root or swim. It was Pablo’s home, he told me—a fair type of the pitiful swamp ranches117 of the lake dwellers118. In the shoals they build their squalid huts and raise the unkempt cattle which know no other pasturage—as their owners no other world.
When we came to the head of the bay and had waded ashore119 with the camera, we stood a long time in the mud looking back at the blue lake and the dark island. I was sore and hungry, and with much to do; but, somehow, it was hard to turn away. Pablo stood screwing his bare toes into the ooze120, in as little haste to be off.
“Who knows, hijito? To-morrow I take mule for the Desaguadero. Perhaps some day. But much eye that thou have a new balsa ready against then, for this is too old. And here is wherewith to buy Jeraldo’s, without waiting to find the chain of Huascar. Adios, then, and—un abrazo!”
He reached up to my shoulders and laid his head against me with a little tug38, and suddenly broke away and started for the[353] balsa. Midway he stopped and turned and came splashing back.
“Hear, viracocha,” he said, with a little uncertainty122 in his voice. “I could not sell the auqui, for it is not honest to take money for sacred things. But one who goes so far as your Excellency, and in many dangers, ought indeed to have one to keep harm from him. And for that you—that—that we were brothered in danger and you did not despise me, now I give you.” And flinging the precious figure at my feet, before I could gather my wits he was spattering out to the balsa. Nor would he return. Ten minutes later, when I looked back from the hut where my things were stored, the drab patch of his sail had quite faded in the totoral.
The End
The End
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abaft
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| prep.在…之后；adv.在船尾，向船尾 | |
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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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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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butted
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| 对接的 | |
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pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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gasping
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thereby
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smote
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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drenched
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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possessed
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firmament
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sublimated
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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30
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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31
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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32
seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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33
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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34
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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35
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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36
fibers
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| 光纤( fiber的名词复数 )； （织物的）质地； 纤维，纤维物质 | |
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37
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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39
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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41
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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42
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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43
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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44
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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45
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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46
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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47
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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48
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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49
concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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50
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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51
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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52
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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53
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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54
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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55
petulantly
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56
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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57
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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58
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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59
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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60
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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61
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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62
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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63
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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65
cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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66
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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67
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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68
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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69
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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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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71
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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72
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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73
floppy
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| adj.松软的，衰弱的 | |
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74
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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75
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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76
pithy
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| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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77
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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78
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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80
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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81
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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82
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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83
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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84
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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85
aquatic
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| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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86
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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87
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
rawhide
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| n.生牛皮 | |
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89
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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90
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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91
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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92
antedating
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的现在分词 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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93
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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94
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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95
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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96
foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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97
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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98
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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99
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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100
flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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101
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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102
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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103
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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105
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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107
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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108
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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109
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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110
scuffing
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| n.刮[磨，擦，划]伤v.使磨损( scuff的现在分词 )；拖着脚走 | |
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111
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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112
soldered
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| v.（使）焊接，焊合( solder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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114
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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115
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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117
ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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118
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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119
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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120
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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121
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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122
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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