Yet now and again a morning trainload of season-ticket holders14 would see a white monster rush headlong through the airy tracery of guides and bars, and hear the further stays, nettings, and buffers15 snap, creak, and groan16 with the impact of the blow. Then there would be an efflorescence of black-set white-rimmed faces along the sides of the train, and the morning papers would be neglected for a vigorous discussion of the possibility of flying (in which nothing new was ever said by any chance), until the train reached Waterloo, and its cargo17 of season-ticket holders dispersed18 themselves over London. Or the fathers and mothers in some multitudinous train of weary excursionists returning exhausted19 from a day of rest by the sea, would find the dark fabric20, standing21 out against the evening sky, useful in diverting some bilious22 child from its introspection, and be suddenly startled by the swift transit23 of a huge black flapping shape that strained upward against the guides. It was a great and forcible thing beyond dispute, and excellent for conversation; yet, all the same, it was but flying in leading-strings, and most of those who witnessed it 68scarcely counted its flight as flying. More of a switchback it seemed to the run of the folk.
Monson, I say, did not trouble himself very keenly about the opinions of the press at first. But possibly he, even, had formed but a poor idea of the time it would take before the tactics of flying were mastered, the swift assured adjustment of the big soaring shape to every gust24 and chance movement of the air; nor had he clearly reckoned the money this prolonged struggle against gravitation would cost him. And he was not so pachydermatous as he seemed. Secretly he had his periodical bundles of cuttings sent him by Romeike, he had his periodical reminders25 from his banker; and if he did not mind the initial ridicule26 and scepticism, he felt the growing neglect as the months went by and the money dribbled27 away. Time was when Monson had sent the enterprising journalist, keen after readable matter, empty from his gates. But when the enterprising journalist ceased from troubling, Monson was anything but satisfied in his heart of hearts. Still day by day the work went on, and the multitudinous subtle difficulties of the steering29 diminished in number. Day by day, too, the money trickled30 away, until his balance was no longer a matter of hundreds of thousands, but of tens. And at last came an anniversary.
Monson, sitting in the little drawing-shed, suddenly noticed the date on Woodhouse’s calendar.
69“It was five years ago to-day that we began,” he said to Woodhouse suddenly.
“Is it?” said Woodhouse.
“It’s the alterations32 play the devil with us,” said Monson, biting a paper-fastener.
The drawings for the new vans to the hinder screw lay on the table before him as he spoke33. He pitched the mutilated brass34 paper-fastener into the waste-paper basket and drummed with his fingers. “These alterations! Will the mathematicians35 ever be clever enough to save us all this patching and experimenting. Five years—learning by rule of thumb, when one might think that it was possible to calculate the whole thing out beforehand. The cost of it! I might have hired three senior wranglers36 for life. But they’d only have developed some beautifully useless theorems in pneumatics. What a time it has been, Woodhouse!”
“These mouldings will take three weeks,” said Woodhouse. “At special prices.”
“Three weeks!” said Monson, and sat drumming.
“Three weeks certain,” said Woodhouse, an excellent engineer, but no good as a comforter. He drew the sheets towards him and began shading a bar.
Monson stopped drumming and began to bite his finger-nails, staring the while at Woodhouse’s head.
“Oh! Year or so,” said Woodhouse, carelessly, without looking up.
Monson sucked the air in between his teeth, and went to the window. The stout38 iron columns carrying the elevated rails upon which the start of the machine was made rose up close by, and the machine was hidden by the upper edge of the window. Through the grove9 of iron pillars, red painted and ornate with rows of bolts, one had a glimpse of the pretty scenery towards Esher. A train went gliding39 noiselessly across the middle distance, its rattle40 drowned by the hammering of the workmen overhead. Monson could imagine the grinning faces at the windows of the carriages. He swore savagely41 under his breath, and dabbed42 viciously at a blowfly that suddenly became noisy on the window-pane.
“What’s up?” said Woodhouse, staring in surprise at his employer.
“I’m about sick of this.”
Woodhouse scratched his cheek. “Oh!” he said, after an assimilating pause. He pushed the drawing away from him.
“Here these fools—I’m trying to conquer a new element—trying to do a thing that will revolutionise life. And instead of taking an intelligent interest, they grin and make their stupid jokes, and call me and my appliances names.”
71“Asses!” said Woodhouse, letting his eye fall again on the drawing.
The epithet43, curiously44 enough, made Monson wince45. “I’m about sick of it, Woodhouse, anyhow,” he said, after a pause.
“There’s nothing for it but patience, I suppose,” said Monson, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I’ve started. I’ve made my bed, and I’ve got to lie on it. I can’t go back. I’ll see it through, and spend every penny I have and every penny I can borrow. But I tell you, Woodhouse, I’m infernally sick of it, all the same. If I’d paid a tenth part of the money towards some political greaser’s expenses—I’d have been a baronet before this.”
Monson paused. Woodhouse stared in front of him with a blank expression he always employed to indicate sympathy, and tapped his pencil-case on the table. Monson stared at him for a minute.
Woodhouse continued his sympathetic rigour for perhaps half a minute. Then he sighed and resumed the shading of the drawings. Something had evidently upset Monson. Nice chap, and generous, but difficult to get on with. It was the way with every amateur who had anything to do with engineering—wanted everything finished at 72once. But Monson had usually the patience of the expert. Odd he was so irritable48. Nice and round that aluminium49 rod did look now! Woodhouse threw back his head, and put it, first this side and then that, to appreciate his bit of shading better.
“Mr. Woodhouse,” said Hooper, the foreman of the labourers, putting his head in at the door.
“Hullo!” said Woodhouse, without turning round.
“Nothing happened, sir?” said Hooper.
“Happened?” said Woodhouse.
“The governor just been up the rails swearing like a tornader.”
“Oh!” said Woodhouse.
“It ain’t like him, sir.”
“No?”
“And I was thinking perhaps—”
“Don’t think,” said Woodhouse, still admiring the drawings.
Hooper knew Woodhouse, and he shut the door suddenly with a vicious slam. Woodhouse stared stonily50 before him for some further minutes, and then made an ineffectual effort to pick his teeth with his pencil. Abruptly he desisted, pitched that old, tried, and stumpy servitor across the room, got up, stretched himself, and followed Hooper.
He looked ruffled51—it was visible to every workman he met. When a millionaire who has been spending thousands on experiments that employ 73quite a little army of people suddenly indicates that he is sick of the undertaking52, there is almost invariably a certain amount of mental friction53 in the ranks of the little army he employs. And even before he indicates his intentions there are speculations54 and murmurs55, a watching of faces and a study of straws. Hundreds of people knew before the day was out that Monson was ruffled, Woodhouse ruffled, Hooper ruffled. A workman’s wife, for instance (whom Monson had never seen), decided56 to keep her money in the savings-bank instead of buying a velveteen dress. So far-reaching are even the casual curses of a millionaire.
Monson found a certain satisfaction in going on the works and behaving disagreeably to as many people as possible. After a time even that palled57 upon him, and he rode off the grounds, to every one’s relief there, and through the lanes south-eastward58, to the infinite tribulation59 of his house steward60 at Cheam.
And the immediate61 cause of it all, the little grain of annoyance62 that had suddenly precipitated63 all this discontent with his life-work was—these trivial things that direct all our great decisions!—half a dozen ill-considered remarks made by a pretty girl, prettily64 dressed, with a beautiful voice and something more than prettiness in her soft grey eyes. And of these half-dozen remarks, two words especially—“Monson’s Folly.” She had 74felt she was behaving charmingly to Monson; she reflected the next day how exceptionally effective she had been, and no one would have been more amazed than she, had she learned the effect she had left on Monson’s mind. I hope, considering everything, that she never knew.
“How are you getting on with your flying-machine?” she asked. (“I wonder if I shall ever meet any one with the sense not to ask that,” thought Monson.) “It will be very dangerous at first, will it not?” (“Thinks I’m afraid.”) “Jorgon is going to play presently; have you heard him before?” (“My mania being attended to, we turn to rational conversation.”) Gush65 about Jorgon; gradual decline of conversation, ending with—“You must let me know when your flying-machine is finished, Mr. Monson, and then I will consider the advisability of taking a ticket.” (“One would think I was still playing inventions in the nursery.”) But the bitterest thing she said was not meant for Monson’s ears. To Phlox, the novelist, she was always conscientiously66 brilliant. “I have been talking to Mr. Monson, and he can think of nothing, positively67 nothing, but that flying-machine of his. Do you know, all his workmen call that place of his ‘Monson’s Folly’? He is quite impossible. It is really very, very sad. I always regard him myself in the light of sunken treasure—the Lost Millionaire, you know.”
75She was pretty and well educated,—indeed, she had written an epigrammatic novelette; but the bitterness was that she was typical. She summarised what the world thought of the man who was working sanely68, steadily69, and surely towards a more tremendous revolution in the appliances of civilisation70, a more far-reaching alteration31 in the ways of humanity than has ever been effected since history began. They did not even take him seriously. In a little while he would be proverbial. “I must fly now,” he said on his way home, smarting with a sense of absolute social failure. “I must fly soon. If it doesn’t come off soon, by God! I shall run amuck71.”
He said that before he had gone through his pass-book and his litter of papers. Inadequate72 as the cause seems, it was that girl’s voice and the expression of her eyes that precipitated his discontent. But certainly the discovery that he had no longer even one hundred thousand pounds’ worth of realisable property behind him was the poison that made the wound deadly.
It was the next day after this that he exploded upon Woodhouse and his workmen, and thereafter his bearing was consistently grim for three weeks, and anxiety dwelt in Cheam and Ewell, Malden, Morden, and Worcester Park, places that had thriven mightily73 on his experiments.
Four weeks after that first swearing of his, he stood with Woodhouse by the reconstructed 76machine as it lay across the elevated railway, by means of which it gained its initial impetus74. The new propeller75 glittered a brighter white than the rest of the machine, and a gilder76, obedient to a whim77 of Monson’s, was picking out the aluminium bars with gold. And looking down the long avenue between the ropes (gilded now with the sunset), one saw red signals, and two miles away an anthill of workmen busy altering the last falls of the run into a rising slope.
“I’ll come,” said Woodhouse. “I’ll come right enough. But I tell you it’s infernally foolhardy. If only you would give another year—”
“I tell you I won’t. I tell you the thing works. I’ve given years enough—”
“It’s not that,” said Woodhouse. “We’re all right with the machine. But it’s the steering—”
“Haven’t I been rushing, night and morning, backwards78 and forwards, through this squirrel’s cage? If the thing steers79 true here, it will steer28 true all across England. It’s just funk, I tell you, Woodhouse. We could have gone a year ago. And besides—”
“Well?” said Woodhouse.
“The money!” snapped Monson, over his shoulder.
“Hang it! I never thought of the money,” said Woodhouse, and then, speaking now in a very different tone to that with which he had said the words before, he repeated, “I’ll come. Trust me.”
77Monson turned suddenly, and saw all that Woodhouse had not the dexterity80 to say, shining on his sunset-lit face. He looked for a moment, then impulsively81 extended his hand. “Thanks,” he said.
“All right,” said Woodhouse, gripping the hand, and with a queer softening82 of his features. “Trust me.”
Then both men turned to the big apparatus that lay with its flat wings extended upon the carrier, and stared at it meditatively83. Monson, guided perhaps by a photographic study of the flight of birds, and by Lilienthal’s methods, had gradually drifted from Maxim’s shapes towards the bird form again. The thing, however, was driven by a huge screw behind in the place of the tail; and so hovering85, which needs an almost vertical86 adjustment of a flat tail, was rendered impossible. The body of the machine was small, almost cylindrical87, and pointed88. Forward and aft on the pointed ends were two small petroleum89 engines for the screw, and the navigators sat deep in a canoe-like recess90, the foremost one steering, and being protected by a low screen, with two plate-glass windows, from the blinding rush of air. On either side a monstrous91 flat framework with a curved front border could be adjusted so as either to lie horizontally, or to be tilted92 upward or down. These wings worked rigidly93 together, or, by releasing a pin, one could 78be tilted through a small angle independently of its fellow. The front edge of either wing could also be shifted back so as to diminish the wing-area about one-sixth. The machine was not only not designed to hover84, but it was also incapable94 of fluttering. Monson’s idea was to get into the air with the initial rush of the apparatus, and then to skim, much as a playingcard may be skimmed, keeping up the rush by means of the screw at the stern. Rooks and gulls95 fly enormous distances in that way with scarcely a perceptible movement of the wings. The bird really drives along on an a?rial switchback. It glides96 slanting97 downward for a space, until it has gained considerable momentum98, and then altering the inclination99 of its wings, glides up again almost to its original altitude. Even a Londoner who has watched the birds in the aviary100 in Regent’s Park knows that.
But the bird is practising this art from the moment it leaves its nest. It has not only the perfect apparatus, but the perfect instinct to use it. A man off his feet has the poorest skill in balancing. Even the simple trick of the bicycle costs him some hours of labour. The instantaneous adjustments of the wings, the quick response to a passing breeze, the swift recovery of equilibrium101, the giddy, eddying102 movements that require such absolute precision—all that he must learn, learn with infinite labour and 79infinite danger, if ever he is to conquer flying. The flying-machine that will start off some fine day, driven by neat “little levers,” with a nice open deck like a liner, and all loaded up with bomb-shells and guns, is the easy dreaming of a literary man. In lives and in treasure the cost of the conquest of the empire of the air may even exceed all that has been spent in man’s great conquest of the sea. Certainly it will be costlier103 than the greatest war that has ever devastated104 the world.
No one knew these things better than these two practical men. And they knew they were in the front rank of the coming army. Yet there is hope even in a forlorn hope. Men are killed outright105 in the reserves sometimes, while others who have been left for dead in the thickest corner crawl out and survive.
“If we miss these meadows—” said Woodhouse, presently in his slow way.
“My dear chap,” said Monson, whose spirits had been rising fitfully during the last few days, “we mustn’t miss these meadows. There’s a quarter of a square mile for us to hit, fences removed, ditches levelled. We shall come down all right—rest assured. And if we don’t—”
“Ah!” said Woodhouse. “If we don’t!”
Before the day of the start, the newspaper people got wind of the alterations at the northward106 end of the framework, and Monson was cheered by a 80decided change in the comments Romeike forwarded him. “He will be off some day,” said the papers. “He will be off some day,” said the South-Western season-ticket holders one to another; the seaside excursionists, the Saturday-to-Monday trippers from Sussex and Hampshire and Dorset and Devon, the eminent107 literary people from Hazlemere, all remarked eagerly one to another, “He will be off some day,” as the familiar scaffolding came in sight. And actually, one bright morning, in full view of the ten-past-ten train from Basingstoke, Monson’s flying-machine started on its journey.
They saw the carrier running swiftly along its rail, and the white-and-gold screw spinning in the air. They heard the rapid rumble108 of wheels, and a thud as the carrier reached the buffers at the end of its run. Then a whirr as the flying-machine was shot forward into the networks. All that the majority of them had seen and heard before. The thing went with a drooping109 flight through the framework and rose again, and then every beholder110 shouted, or screamed, or yelled, or shrieked111 after his kind. For instead of the customary concussion112 and stoppage, the flying-machine flew out of its five years’ cage like a bolt from a crossbow, and drove slantingly upward into the air, curved round a little, so as to cross the line, and soared in the direction of Wimbledon Common.
It seemed to hang momentarily in the air and 81grow smaller, then it ducked and vanished over the clustering blue tree-tops to the east of Coombe Hill, and no one stopped staring and gasping113 until long after it had disappeared.
That was what the people in the train from Basingstoke saw. If you had drawn114 a line down the middle of that train, from engine to guard’s van, you would not have found a living soul on the opposite side to the flying-machine. It was a mad rush from window to window as the thing crossed the line. And the engine-driver and stoker never took their eyes off the low hills about Wimbledon, and never noticed that they had run clean through Coombe and Malden and Raynes Park, until, with returning animation115, they found themselves pelting116, at the most indecent pace, into Wimbledon station.
From the moment when Monson had started the carrier with a “Now!” neither he nor Woodhouse said a word. Both men sat with clenched117 teeth. Monson had crossed the line with a curve that was too sharp, and Woodhouse had opened and shut his white lips; but neither spoke. Woodhouse simply gripped his seat, and breathed sharply through his teeth, watching the blue country to the west rushing past, and down, and away from him. Monson knelt at his post forward, and his hands trembled on the spoked118 wheel that moved the wings. He could see nothing before him but a mass of white clouds in the sky.
82The machine went slanting upward, travelling with an enormous speed still, but losing momentum every moment. The land ran away underneath119 with diminishing speed.
“Now!” said Woodhouse at last, and with a violent effort Monson wrenched120 over the wheel and altered the angle of the wings. The machine seemed to hang for half a minute motionless in mid-air, and then he saw the hazy121 blue house-covered hills of Kilburn and Hampstead jump up before his eyes and rise steadily, until the little sunlit dome122 of the Albert Hall appeared through his windows. For a moment he scarcely understood the meaning of this upward rush of the horizon, but as the nearer and nearer houses came into view, he realised what he had done. He had turned the wings over too far, and they were swooping123 steeply downward towards the Thames.
The thought, the question, the realisation were all the business of a second of time. “Too much!” gasped124 Woodhouse. Monson brought the wheel half-way back with a jerk, and forthwith the Kilburn and Hampstead ridge125 dropped again to the lower edge of his windows. They had been a thousand feet above Coombe and Malden station; fifty seconds after they whizzed, at a frightful126 pace, not eighty feet above the East Putney station, on the Metropolitan127 District line, to the screaming astonishment128 of a platform full of people. Monson flung up the vans against the air, and over Fulham they 83rushed up their atmospheric129 switchback again, steeply—too steeply. The ’busses went floundering across the Fulham Road, the people yelled.
Then down again, too steeply still, and the distant trees and houses about Primrose130 Hill leapt up across Monson’s window, and then suddenly he saw straight before him the greenery of Kensington Gardens and the towers of the Imperial Institute. They were driving straight down upon South Kensington. The pinnacles131 of the Natural History Museum rushed up into view. There came one fatal second of swift thought, a moment of hesitation132. Should he try and clear the towers, or swerve133 eastward?
He made a hesitating attempt to release the right wing, left the catch half released, and gave a frantic134 clutch at the wheel.
The nose of the machine seemed to leap up before him. The wheel pressed his hand with irresistible135 force, and jerked itself out of his control.
Woodhouse, sitting crouched136 together, gave a hoarse137 cry, and sprang up towards Monson. “Too far!” he cried, and then he was clinging to the gunwale for dear life, and Monson had been jerked clean overhead, and was falling backwards upon him.
So swiftly had the thing happened that barely a quarter of the people going to and fro in Hyde Park, and Brompton Road, and the Exhibition 84Road saw anything of the a?rial catastrophe138. A distant winged shape had appeared above the clustering houses to the south, had fallen and risen, growing larger as it did so; had swooped139 swiftly down towards the Imperial Institute, a broad spread of flying wings, had swept round in a quarter circle, dashed eastward, and then suddenly sprang vertically140 into the air. A black object shot out of it, and came spinning downward. A man! Two men clutching each other! They came whirling down, separated as they struck the roof of the Students’ Club, and bounded off into the green bushes on its southward side.
For perhaps half a minute, the pointed stem of the big machine still pierced vertically upward, the screw spinning desperately141. For one brief instant, that yet seemed an age to all who watched, it had hung motionless in mid-air. Then a spout142 of yellow flame licked up its length from the stern engine, and swift, swifter, swifter, and flaring143 like a rocket, it rushed down upon the solid mass of masonry144 which was formerly145 the Royal College of Science. The big screw of white and gold touched the parapet, and crumpled146 up like wet linen147. Then the blazing spindle-shaped body smashed and splintered, smashing and splintering in its fall, upon the north-westward angle of the building.
But the crash, the flame of blazing paraffin that shot heavenward from the shattered engines of the machine, the crushed horrors that were found in 85the garden beyond the Students’ Club, the masses of yellow parapet and red brick that fell headlong into the roadway, the running to and fro of people like ants in a broken anthill, the galloping148 of fire-engines, the gathering149 of crowds—all these things do not belong to this story, which was written only to tell how the first of all successful flying-machines was launched and flew. Though he failed, and failed disastrously150, the record of Monson’s work remains—a sufficient monument—to guide the next of that band of gallant151 experimentalists who will sooner or later master this great problem of flying. And between Worcester Park and Malden there still stands that portentous152 avenue of iron-work, rusting153 now, and dangerous here and there, to witness to the first desperate struggle for man’s right of way through the air.
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1
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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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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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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buffers
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| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
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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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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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exhausted
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fabric
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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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bilious
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transit
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gust
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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steering
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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alteration
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alterations
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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36
wranglers
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| n.争执人( wrangler的名词复数 )；在争吵的人；（尤指放马的）牧人；牛仔 | |
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37
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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39
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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40
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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41
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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42
dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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43
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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44
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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45
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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46
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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47
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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48
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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49
aluminium
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| n.铝 (=aluminum) | |
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50
stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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51
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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53
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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54
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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55
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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56
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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57
palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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59
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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60
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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61
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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62
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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63
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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64
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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65
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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66
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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67
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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68
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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69
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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70
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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71
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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72
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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73
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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74
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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75
propeller
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器 | |
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76
gilder
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| 镀金工人 | |
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77
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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78
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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79
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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80
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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81
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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82
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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83
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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84
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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85
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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86
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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87
cylindrical
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| adj.圆筒形的 | |
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88
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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89
petroleum
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| n.原油，石油 | |
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90
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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91
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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92
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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93
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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94
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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95
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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96
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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97
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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98
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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99
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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100
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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101
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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102
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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103
costlier
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的比较级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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104
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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105
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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106
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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107
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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108
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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109
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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110
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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111
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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113
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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114
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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115
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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116
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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117
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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118
spoked
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| 辐条 | |
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119
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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120
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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121
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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122
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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123
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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124
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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125
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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126
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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127
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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128
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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129
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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130
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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131
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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132
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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133
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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134
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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135
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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136
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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138
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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139
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
vertically
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| adv.垂直地 | |
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141
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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142
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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143
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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144
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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145
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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146
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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147
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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148
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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149
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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150
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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151
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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152
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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153
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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