The winding3 thoroughfare that led over the decrepit4 bridge was an ancient Indian trail that, like the other cherished possessions of the red man, had been merged5 into the economies of his white brothers.
The plashing waters of the river lulled6 the ear with gentle tumult7. They sighed softly under the old bridge, rippled8 against the decayed abutments with a dirge-like rhythm, and spread out in little swirls9 and scrolls10 over the tapering11 sand bar below.
During the hot summer forenoons barefooted boys in fragmentary costume appeared on the structure from unknown sources. They rested long cane12 fish poles along the side rails, and watched for the corks13 to bob that floated on the lazy current. They soon disrobed and remained naked the rest of the day, making frequent trips into the river, where 106they wallowed along the muddy margin14 and splashed in the shallow water.
The agile15 sun burned bodies, and the shouts of the noisy happy crew, gave a touch of vibrant16 life and human interest to the melancholy17 old bridge.
When night came the scant18 raiment was gathered up and the slender strings19 of small bull-heads and sun-fish—a meager20 spoil if judged from a material standpoint—were carried proudly away on the dusty road. Emperors—and particularly one of them—might well envy their innocence21 and happiness as they faded away into the twilight23.
Lofty elms, big sycamores and bass-woods, interlaced with wild grape vines, shaded the approach to the bridge, and fringed the gently sloping banks of the river.
The store was a remnant of the past. When it was built, about sixty years ago, the location seemed to offer alluring24 prospects25. While the expected town did not materialize in the vicinity of the bridge, the store had done a thriving business, before the railroads crossed the river country, and after the old trail was graded. Few of the frequent travelers along the road had failed to stop and contribute more or less to its prosperity. The trappers from up and down the river sold their pelts27 and obtained supplies there, some of which consisted of very raw edged liquor, that they often claimed ate holes in their stockings. Much of it had never enjoyed the society of a revenue stamp, but as stamps affected28 neither the flavor or the hitting quality of the goods, nobody ever inquired into these things.
Tipton Posey
107The merciless years changed the fortunes of the place, and it was now in an atmosphere of decay. It was a gray unpainted two story affair, with a wooden awning29 over a broad platform in front, along the outer edge of which hung a small squeaky sign:
TIPTON POSEY
GENERAL MERCHANDISE
It was the general loafing place of the old muskrat30 trappers and pot hunters—known as “river rats,”—and old settlers, whose principal asset was spare time, but everybody for miles around came occasionally to “keep track o’ what’s goin’ on,” and to exchange the gossip of the river country.
Posey, the jovial31 and philosophic32 proprietor33, who lived upstairs, was a sympathetic member of the motley gatherings34. He was utilized36 in countless37 ways. He acted as stakeholder and referee38 when bets were made on disputed matters of fact, delivered verbal messages, and always had the latest news. He was a good natured, ruddy faced old fellow, with an eccentric moustache that curled in at one corner of his mouth, and seemed to be trying to make its escape on the other side. He seldom wore a hat and his gray hair stood up like a flare40 over his high forehead.
108The confused stock of goods included a little of everything that any reasonable human being would want to buy, and lots of things that nobody could ever have any sane41 use for. Those who were unreasonable42 could always get what they wanted by waiting a week or two, for “Tip” declared that he would draw upon the resources of the civilized43 world through the mails, if necessary, to accommodate his customers.
Posey was reliable in everything except regular attendance. He “opened store” spasmodically in the morning, and closed it “whenever they was nobody ’round” at night. When his life-long friend, Bill Stiles, was unavailable as a substitute guardian44 he often locked up and left a notice on the door indicating when he would return. I once found one reading: “Gone off—back Monday.” It was Wednesday and it had been there since Saturday. Various lead pencil comments had been inscribed45 on the misleading notice by facetious46 visitors, among them “Liar!” “What Monday?” “Sober up!” “Stranger called to buy a hundred dollars’ worth of goods and found nobody home.” “The sheriff has been here looking for you twice,” and several other notations47 calculated to annoy the delinquent48. Sometimes the notice would simply read “Gone off,” which, in connection with the fact that the door was locked, was convincing to the most obtuse49 observer. Tip usually found a fringe of patient customers and assorted50 loiterers sitting along the edge of the platform, 109discussing the burning questions of the day, when he returned.
During the shooting seasons he spent much time on the marsh51 down the river. Orders were stuck under the door, and during his brief and uncertain visits to the store, he filled them and left the goods in a locked wooden box in the rear, to which a few favored customers had duplicate keys.
While Tip’s affairs were not conducted on strictly52 commercial principles, he had no competition, and eventually did all the business there was to be done. “I git all the money they got, an’ nobody c’d do more’n that if they was here all the time,” he remarked, as he laid his gun and a bunch of bloody53 ducks on the platform and unlocked the door late one night, after several days’ absence. “I got ’em all trained now an’ they’d be spoiled if I took to bein’ here reg’lar.”
There were two “spare rooms” over the store, that were reached by a stairway on the outside of the building. I usually occupied one of them whenever I visited that part of the river. Bill Stiles slept in the other when he thought it was too dark for him to go home, or he was not in a condition to make the attempt. It was in use most of the time.
Bill was the genius loci, and gave it a rich and mellow54 character, which it would have been difficult for Posey to sustain alone. He was a grizzled veteran of the marshes55. For many years he had lived in a tumble-down shack56 on “Huckleberry Island.” He trapped muskrats57 and mink58 over a wide area in 110the winter, and shot ducks and geese for the market in the spring and fall. When the fur harvests began to fail, and the game laws became oppressive, he concluded that he was getting too old to work, and was too much alone in the world. He moved up the river and built a new shack on “Watermelon Bend,” which was within easy walking distance from the store, where he could usually find plenty of congenial company when he wanted it. Here he had become a fixture59.
Out of the ample fund of his experience, flavored and garnished60 by the rich and inexhaustible fertility of an imagination, that at times was almost uncanny, had come tales of early life on the river and marshes that had enthralled61 the loiterers at the store. They shared the shade of the awning with him during the hot summer days, and surrounded the big bellied62 wood stove in the dingy63 interior during the winter days and evenings when “they was nothin’ doin’” anywhere else in the region, and listened with rapt interest to his reminiscences. Any expression of incredulity met with crushing rebuke64. “I didn’t notice that you was there at the time,” he would remark with asperity65. “If you wasn’t, that’ll be all from you.”
The muskrat colonies still left along the river, and out on the marshy66 areas, were often drawn upon by adventurous67 youngsters, solely68 for the purpose of “seein’ Bill skin ’em.” Clusters of the unfortunates were brought by their tails and laid on the store platform. The old man would look the 111crowd over patronizingly, take his “ripper” from his pocket, and, with a few dexterous69 strokes, perform feats70 of pelt26 surgery that made the tyros71 gasp72 with admiration73.
“I skun six hundred an’ forty-eight rats once’t, in five hours, that I’d caught on Muckshaw Lake the night before,” was Bill’s invariable remark after he had finished his grewsome performance.
The adulation of these small audiences was the glow that illumined his declining days.
When I first met the old man years ago, he was engaged in writing his autobiography75, and at last accounts he was still at it. His shack and the little room over the store had gradually become literary temples. His complicated manuscripts and notes were kept in an old black satchel77 of once shiny oil cloth, that he called his “war bag.” On its side was the roughly lettered inscription78: “HISTORIC CRONICELS—STILES.” He carried it back and forth79 between his abodes80 with much solicitude82. During the many evenings I spent with him, he would frequently extract its contents and read aloud in the dim light of a kerosene83 lamp. He often paused and looked over the rims84 of his spectacles, with animation85 in his gray eyes, when he came to passages that he deemed of special importance. The masses of foolscap contained records that were only intelligible86 to the writer. His grammar and spelling were hopelessly bad, his methods of compilation87 were baffling, and his penmanship was mystic, but his collection of facts and near-facts was prodigious88. 112He took long reflective rests between the periods of active composition. They were deathless chronicles in the sense that they seemed to be without end, and they appeared to become more and more deathless as he proceeded.
The first two or three hundred pages were what Bill called a “Backfire Chapter.” It began with the Creative Dawn, and was a general historical résumé down to the time of his appearance on earth. It skipped lightly over the great events, that loom89 like mountain peaks in the world’s history and tower away into the receding90 centuries. When he came to the Deluge91 he got lost among Noah’s animals for awhile and floundered hopelessly for adjectives. It was impossible to enumerate92 and describe all of them, but he did the best he could. Through a maze93 of wars and falling empires, he got Columbus to America. The Republic was established, and civilization finally flowered with the birth of Bill Stiles, A.D., 1836. From the dawn of time to the rocking of Bill’s cradle was a far cry, but his annals included what he considered the essential features of that dark period.
In addition to a vast amount of matter of purely94 personal interest, the work was designed to accurately95 record the happenings in the river country during Bill’s lifetime.
Much of his material was collected at the store. The year that Bundy’s Bridge was built, and the ferry ceased operations, was shrouded96 in historic gloom. Five times the year had been changed in 113the chronicles, for five eminent97 authorities differed as to the date, and each of them had at one time or another succeeded in impressing Bill. He seemed confident of all his other facts. The other bridges had given him no trouble.
There was no question in his mind as to when the Pottowattomies were relieved of their lands and forcibly removed from the country, or when the camp of horse thieves on Grape Island was broken up.
There was a tale of another band of horse thieves, whose secret retreat was on an island in the middle of a big lake of soft muck several miles south of the river.
The one route of access to it was a concealed98 sand bar known only to the outlaws99. The unsavory crew collected their plunder100 on the island, where the pilfered101 beasts were cared for, and their markings changed with various dyes. In due time they smuggled102 them away in the darkness to distant markets. They once captured a too curious preacher, who was looking for his horse, and kept him in durance vile103 for several months. The expounder104 of the gospels labored105 so faithfully in that seemingly hopeless vineyard that the blasé bandits were finally “purified by the word of the Lord, gave up their dark practices, made restitution106, and ever after lived model lives.”
There was a record of a mighty107 flood that drowned out everything and everybody, ran over the top of the bridge and carried part of it away, and following 114this were notations of approximate dates of sundry108 happenings—when the gang of counterfeiters that dwelt in Pinkamink Marsh were caught and “sent up”—the year that Bill killed a blue goose on “Boiler Slough109”—when the tornado110 blew all of the water out of the river at “Ox Bow Bend” and left the channel bare for half an hour, and the year that “forty-six thousand rat skins was took off Shelby Marsh.”
A page was devoted111 to a reign112 of terror that lasted several weeks in 1877. For five nights an awful roar had come out of “Bull Snake Bayou.” The mystery was never explained, but Bill thought that the noise had been produced by a “whiffmatick” or a “hodad” that had come down with the spring flood, lost its way, and was shedding horns or scales in the vine-clad thickets113.
The births, weddings and deaths of all the old settlers were carefully recorded, and many of their exploits detailed114 at length. There was an account of the capture of Hank Butts115 and his illicit116 still by the revenue officers, the failure of the jury to convict, owing to the reputations of the culprit’s two sons as dead shots, and the story of Hank’s death in a feather bed, with his boots on, when he went to visit a city relative and blew out the gas a few months later.
Bill’s experience with a “cattymount” was related with much detail. He had encountered it in the woods when he was young, and had spent two days and nights in a tree, living on crackers118, plug 115tobacco, and a bottle of sage39 tea that he fortunately happened to have with him. The animal’s foot had been shattered by Bill’s only bullet and this prevented it from going into the foliage119 after him. The captive had chewed up over a pound of the plug and had carefully aimed the resulting juices at the baleful eye-balls that gleamed below him at night, hoping to blind his besieger120. When the supply of this ammunition121 was exhausted122 the animal’s eyes were still bright, although Bill had scored many body hits and had decidedly changed the general color of his enemy.
Hunger finally compelled the savage123 beast to beat a retreat and the situation was relieved. The “cattymount” had evidently increased in size with the succeeding years, for in the manuscript its estimated length had been twice corrected with a pen, the last figures being the highest. Bill added that he had killed this “fierce an’ formidable animal” later, and that “its skin was taken east.”
Somewhere among the confused piles was the tale of the last voyage of the little stern-wheel steamer, “Morning Star” to the ferry, under command of “Cap’n Sink.” She had come up from the Illinois river, and the falling waters had left her stranded124 for a week on a sand bar. Her doughty125 commander paced the deck and blistered126 it with profanity. He swore by nine gods that he never again would go above “Corkscrew Bend,” that was so crooked127 that even the fish had sense enough to keep out of it. His vociferous128 impiety129 filtered intermittently130 116through the green foliage that overhung the river, and desecrated132 the shadow-flecked aisles133 of the forest, until the Morning Star’s sister boat, the “Damfino,” came wheezing134 up stream. The unfortunate craft was pulled off the bar and navigation officially ended.
Reliable data was becoming scarce. Bill’s recollections were getting hazy135. The old settlers, whose memories could be relied upon, were dying off, and the mists were absorbing his ascertainable136 facts, but, while life lasts the chronicles will go on, for Bill’s genius is not of the sort that admits defeat.
There is much human history that might with profit be entombed in these humble137 archives, and its obscurity would be a blessing138 to those who made it. As the world grows older it finds less to respect in the dusty tomes that are filled with the story of human folly139, selfishness and needless bloodshed.
Bill and I were enjoying a quiet smoke on the store platform one July afternoon, and discussing his historical labors140.
“We’r livin’ in ter’ble times, an’ the things that’s happenin’ now mops ev’ry thing else offen the map,” he declared, as he refilled his cob pipe. “I see things in my paper ev’ry week that oughta be noted141 down in my history, but I’m pretty near eighty, an’ if I try to put ’em all in I’ll never git through. There’s too damn much goin’ on. They’r ditchin’ the river an’ hell’s to pay up above. They’r blastin’ in the woods with dinnymite, an’ some o’ them ol’ codgers that lives in them shacks142 up above 117English Lake’ll be blown to kingdom come if they don’t watch out an’ duck. They better wake up an’ come down stream. Say, d’ye see that damn cuss comin’ over the bridge? That’s Rat Hyatt, an’ I’m goin’ to jump ’im when ’e gits ’ere. He lost my dog I let ’im take. That feller’s no good, an’ ’e’s ripenin’ fer damnation.”
“Muskrat Hyatt” was a tall, raw-boned, keen-eyed ne’er-do-well sort of a fellow, who had hunted and trapped on the river for many years. He lived in an old house boat that had floated down stream during high water one spring, and got wedged in among some big trees in the woods, about half a mile above the bridge. He moved into it when the waters subsided143 and found it an agreeable abode81.
“I hope the owner never shows up,” remarked Rat, after I knew him. “I don’t think I’d like him. If the water ever gits that high ag’in an’ floats me off, I’m willin’ to go most anywheres in the old ark so long’s she don’t take a notion to go down an’ roost on the bridge with me.”
He greeted us, with rather an embarrassed air, as he came up, and the old man spent considerable time in attempting to extract some definite information about “Spot.” Rat was evasive and unsatisfactory.
“They ain’t no more patheticker sight than to see some feller that sets an’ flaps ’is ears, an’ can’t answer nothin’ that’s asked ’im without tryin’ to chin about sump’n else all the time,” declared Bill. 118“I don’t care nothin’ about its bein’ hot. I want to know where in hell my dog is.”
“That dog o’ your’n’s all right,” said Hyatt. “I reckon ’e’s off some’rs chas’n rabbits, an’ you needn’t do no worryin’. If anybody’s stole ’im you bet I’ll git ’im an’ the scalp o’ the feller with ’im. If ’e aint ’ere tomorrer I’ll take a look around. A dog like that can’t be kep’ hid long, an’ somebody’ll ’ave seen ’im. He ain’t no fool, an’ if ’e’s shut up anywheres, you bet ’e’ll come back w’en ’e gits out.”
“Well, you see that ’e gits out,” replied the old man with asperity. “I’m done havin’ heart disease ev’ry time I don’t see that dog w’en I go by your place, an’ I want ’im back where ’e b’longs. I didn’t give ’im to you, an’ if you don’t know where ’e is you aint fit to have charge o’ no animal. This aint no small talk that I’m doin’. Its the summin’ up o’ the court.”
Spot was a well trained bird dog. Hyatt had borrowed him from the old man about two years before, and, as his facilities for taking care of him were much better than Bill was able to provide, the animal was allowed to remain at Hyatt’s house boat on indefinite leave. He slept under the rude bed and seemed much happier there than at home.
Hyatt was now in rather a delicate position. The dog had not been seen in the neighborhood for over a week. An old trapper had come down the river in a canoe and stopped for an hour or so at the house boat. He announced his intention of leaving 119the country forever, and was on his way to the Illinois where he hoped to find enough muskrats to occupy his remaining days. He wanted a good quail145 dog, and, after much jockeying, had acquired Spot in exchange for a repeating rifle and a box of cartridges146. The dog was tied in the front end of the canoe and departed with his new owner. Hyatt had an abiding147 faith that Spot would return in a few days, and that the stranger would be too far away down stream to want to buffet148 the strong current to get him back.
The dog’s homing instinct had proved reliable heretofore, as he had been sold several times under similar conditions, and was now regarded as a possible source of steady income by his thrifty149 guardian.
Hyatt was careful not to sell the animal to anybody who was liable to be in that part of the country again. Spot had once gone as far as the Mississippi river with a confiding150 purchaser, and was away only a little over two weeks. He was now expected back at any time, in fact he was under the bed when Hyatt arrived home after the disagreeable reproaches of Bill Stiles, and the next day the incident was considered closed by both parties.
The only pet that Bill had cared anything for in recent years, besides his dog, was a one legged duck that he called “Esther.” The missing support had been acquired by a snapping turtle in the river, and Bill’s sympathies and affections had been aroused. During her owner’s absence from his shack, Esther 120and her brown brood were confined in the hollow base of a big tree, protected from the weasels and skunks151 by a wire screen over the opening.
By Saturday night Hyatt and Stiles had become quite chummy again. It was very hot and we sat in front of the store with our coats off. Bill was discoursing152 sapiently153 on topics of international import, when we saw somebody down the road.
“That ol’ mudturkle comin’ yonder with that pipe stuck in all them whiskers, is Bill Wirrick,” he announced after further observation. “We call ’im ‘Puckerbrush Bill,’ on account of ’is bein’ up in Puckerbrush Bayou one night in ’is push boat, an’ tryin’ to make a short cut to git back to the river. He got ’is whiskers tangled154 in the puckerbrush an’ had to cut away a lot of ’em with ’is knife to git out. He’s between some pretty big bunches of ’em now, but they aint nothin’ to what they was. He had pretty near half a bushel an’ ’e used to carry ’is money in ’em. I s’pose ’e’ll begin tellin’ about all ’is troubles w’en ’e gits ’ere. That’s what’s the matter with this place, an’ it makes me tired to hear all these fellers tellin’ their troubles w’en they oughta be listenin’ to mine. My troubles has got some importance, but theirs don’t interest nobody.
“Hello, Puck,” greeted the old man, as Wirrick came up, “how’s things down to the slough?”
“Pretty slow; got’ny tobacco?”
“Listen at ’im!” whispered Bill.
“Puckerbrush Bill”
121He was duly supplied, and took one of the hickory chairs under the awning. Notwithstanding their reported depletion155, his whiskers were still impressive, and the warm evening breeze played softly and fondly among the ample remnants. His mouth was concealed somewhere in the maze. His pointed156 nose and watchful157 furtive158 eyes gave his face a peculiar159 foxy expression.
“Its a good thing you didn’t strike a prairie fire with them whiskers, instid of a mess o’ puckerbrush,” remarked Bill, after a period of silence.
“I’m goin’ to mow160 ’em in a few days to cool off, an’ then raise a new crop fer next winter. They’s lots more whar them come from,” replied Wirrick. “I’ll git some whiskers that’ll make you fellers set up an’ take notice ’fore the snow flies.”
The mention of fire in connection with his whiskers must have suggested something to Wirrick, for, when he appeared without them the following week, he said that he hated a razor, couldn’t find any shears161, and had “frizzled ’em off with a candle.”
Bill was shocked at his appearance.
“You look like you was half naked. I see now w’y you been keepin’ that ol’ mug o’ your’n covered up. You’ve got a bum162 face. You git busy an’ git all the whiskers you can right away!”
The next arrival was Swan Peterson, an aged74 Swede, who lived in a dilapidated shack, festooned on the inside with rusty163 muskrat traps, near the mouth of “Crooked Creek164.” His liver had rebelled against many years of unfair treatment, and 122his visage was of a greenish yellow. A prodigious white moustache, that suggested a chrysanthemum165 in full bloom, accentuated166 the evidence of his ailment167. He was considerably168 over six feet tall. The years of hardship and isolation169 had bent170 his mighty shoulders and saddened his gray eyes. Peterson was cast in a heroic mould. His ancestors were the sea wolves who roved over perilous171 and unknown waters, and met violent deaths, in years when the Norse legends were in the making, but their wild forays and stormy lives meant nothing to him. He had no interest in the past or traditions to uphold. All he now wanted in the world was plenty of patent medicine and whiskey to mix with it, and in a pinch, he could get along without the medicine.
The jaundiced Viking came slowly up on to the platform, looked us over languidly, and commented on the general cussedness of the weather and life’s monotonies.
“I ban har fifty years, an’ I seen the same damn thing ev’ry year all over again. It ban cold in winter an’ hot in summer. I eat an’ sleep, an’ eat an’ sleep some more, an’ work hard all day, an’ then eat an’ sleep—ev’ry day the same damn thing. I ban takin’ medicine now five years, an’ I can’t git none that’s got any kick. Mebbe I got some o’ them things that Rass Wattles says Wahoo Bitters’ll cure, but mebbe I got something else that they didn’t know about when they mixed that stuff. I find mixin’ half Wahoo an’ half whiskey ban some help, but I’m goin’ to try some other bitters an’ mix in more whiskey. That whiskey ban a good thing, an’ when I get a good thing I put a sinker on it.”
Swan Peterson
123Old “Doc” Dust drove up in a squeaky buggy with an ancient top. His lazy gray mare172 seemed glad to get her feet into the hollowed ground in front of the hitching173 rail.
Certain types in the medical profession are never called anything but “Doc,” except when more profane174 appellations175 are required. Dust was a befitting name for the old man, for he appeared to be much dried up. His parchment like skin was drawn tightly over his protruding176 cheek bones, and his emaciated177 figure seemed almost ready to blow away. A frayed178 Prince Albert coat was secured with one button at the waist, and a rusty plug hat was jammed down on the back of his head. These things were evidently intended to impart a professional air, but they completed a sad satire179. The Doc looked like a hypocritical old scamp.
Much human character, or the lack of it, may be indicated by a hat, and the manner of wearing it, particularly if it is a “plug.” Worn in the ordinary conventional way, a “correct” plug is supposed to provide a roof for a certain kind of dignity, but usually it indicates nothing beyond a mere180 lack of artistic181 sensibility. Tipped forward, it suggests sulkiness, obstinacy182, and self-complacency—a sort of sporty rowdyism, when worn on one side—and disregard of the rights and opinions of others, when it is tilted183 back of the ears.
124Of course the condition and the year of coinage of the plug enter into the equation and complicate76 it, but even a very shabby plug is an entertaining story teller184. To a careful and discriminating185 student of human folly, it is replete186 with subtleties187.
A Fiji Island cannibal, whose only wearing apparel was a plug hat, was once made chief of his tribe on account of it. It was probably as becoming to him as it had been to the spiritual adviser188 he had eaten. Such dignity and distinction as it was capable of imparting was his. He had attained189 what is possibly the apotheosis190 of barbaric head dress of our age.
Doc carried two medicine cases under his buggy seat on his professional rounds. One of them was stocked with a dozen large bottles with Latin labels, and the other with small phials containing white pills the size of number six shot. If his patient preferred “Alopathy,” he or she got it with a vengeance191. If “Homepathy” was wanted, the smaller receptacle was drawn upon. The “leaders” in the “Alopathy” box were castor oil—calomel, and quinine. Aconite and Belladona–100, and Magnesium192 Phos–10 occupied the places of honor in the other.
Dust had weathered several matrimonial storms, and his last wife was now under the wild flowers in the country cemetery193, where the epitaph on the unpretentious stone—erected by her own relatives—was more congratulatory than sorrowful.
“Doc” Hopkins, or “Hoppy194 Doc” as he was irreverently 125dubbed along the river, was Dust’s only rival. The competition was bitter, and many untimely ends were ascribed by each of them to the other’s criminal ignorance. Hoppy Doc often told, with great relish195, a story of Cornelia Kibbins, Dust’s first wife, alleging196 that after a year of tempestuous197 married life, she had fled to her father’s home late one winter night for refuge. Her irate198 parent refused her an asylum199. He had felt greatly outraged200 when the wedding took place and never wanted to see his daughter again. In answer to the plaintive201 midnight cry at his door, he leaned out of a second story window and delivered a torrent202 of invective203. As he closed the window he shouted, “Dust thou art, and unto Dust shalt thou return!”
The suppliant204 disappeared, and evidently the worm turned, for Dust was a physical wreck205 for a month afterwards. Old man Kibbins subsequently declared that while his daughter “was a damn fool, she had fight’n blood in ’er, an’ the Doc ’ad better look out fer squalls.”
Dust was guyed good-naturedly by the occupants of the platform, as he went into the store to get some fine cut.
Bill winked207 at me and asked him if he had driven by his garden lately—a delicate reference to the cemetery, intended to be sarcastic208.
Another stove pipe hat was brought by “Pop” Wilkins, an octogenarian. He also wore it jammed 126well down behind his ears. The old man climbed painfully up the steps with his hickory cane, and dropped into a chair that Hyatt brought out of the store for him. He placed the ancient tile under it, mopped his bald head with a large red bandanna209, and looked wistfully beyond the river.
Pop had been afflicted210 with intermittent131 ague for several years. He was once a preacher and a temperance advocate. He was placed on the superannuated211 list by the Methodist conference, and had finally been expunged212 as a backslider. He fell from grace and yielded to the lure117 of strong waters. Once, after he had over indulged for several weeks, he went and sat in sad reflection on the bank of the gloomy river at night. Out of its depths came strange six footed beasts and multicolored crawling things that terrified Pop and drove remorse213 into his soul. Since that eventful night he had been more moderate, but he was still in danger, and it was a question as to whether old age, ague, or J. Barleycorn would get him first.
My friend “Kun’l” Peets, who was a comparatively recent importation into the river country, came over the bridge with a basket on his arm containing a couple of setter pups that he wanted Posey to see, with a view of possibly having them applied214 on his account at the store. He was an ex-confederate from Tennessee, and seemed sadly out of harmony with his surroundings. The pups were liberated215 on the platform and subjected to much poking216 about and criticism by the experts. The 127Colonel considered them “fine specimens217 of a noble strain,” but Wirrick thought “they looked like they had some wolf blood in ’em.” Posey agreed to accept the little animals in lieu of eight dollars owed by the Colonel, with the understanding that they were to be kept for him until they were a month older. Everybody understood his kindly218 consideration for the old man, and knew that he had no earthly use for the pups.
The assemblage in front of the store became more varied219 and interesting with the arrival of other visitors. The chairs were exhausted and the platform edge was entirely220 occupied. Bill Stiles had just commenced the narration221 of a horse trade story, when an old man appeared in the twilight on the bridge. He wore a long gray overcoat, although the evening was very warm. The story stopped and interest was centered on the slowly approaching figure.
I asked Posey who he was. He bent his head toward me confidentially222, and, in something between a low whistle and a whisper, replied: “S-s-s-s-t——‘the Serpent’s Hiss’!!!”
We were in prohibition223 territory, and the old “bootlegger” was bringing twelve flat pint224 bottles in twelve inside pockets of the gray overcoat to break the drought at Posey’s store.
He was an unbonded warehouse225, and the reason for the mysterious gathering35 on that particular evening was now apparent.
He came slowly up the steps, and seemed embarrassed 128to find a stranger present. I was introduced and vouched226 for by my friend Posey, and he seemed much relieved.
Conversation had been rather dull during the last half hour, but now it had a merry note. The jaundiced Viking brightened up and wondered how many bird’s nests had been constructed with the whiskers that Wirrick had left up in the bayou. Time worn jokes were laughed at more than usual. Some new insurance that Posey had acquired was regarded as indicating a big fire as soon as business got dull, and Doc Dust was told that he ought to keep the small bag of oats under his buggy seat away from the medicine cases or he would lose his horse.
“Well, time is flitt’n,” remarked the “Serpent’s Hiss,” as he rose and departed for the barn lot behind the store.
One by one, like turtles slipping off a log into a stream, those who sat along the edge of the platform dropped silently to the ground and followed him, and most of the occupants of the chairs joined the procession. Like the oriflamme of Henry of Navarre, the gray overcoat led them on through the dusk.
The retreat to the rear was in deference227 to Posey’s scruples228. He preferred that the store itself should be kept free from illegitimate traffic.
The odor of substantial sin, and a faint suggestion of a dragon’s breath was in the atmosphere when the crowd returned. Deliverance had come. 129Aridity was succeeded by bountiful moisture, that like gentle rain, had fallen upon thirsty flowers.
The Colonel seemed in some way to be dissatisfied with his visit to the barn, and was at odds229 with the owner of the gray overcoat when the expedition returned. He had parted with a silver coin under protest.
“Inate cou’tesy, suh, compelled me to pa’take of you’ah abundance, suh,” he declared. “It was not that I wanted you’ah infe’nal mixcha, you mink eyed old grave robbah,” he declared, as he left with his puppies.
The old bootlegger’s name was Richard Shakes, but the obvious natural perversion230 to “Dick Snakes” was too tempting144 to be resisted by the river humorists. He was also frequently alluded231 to as “Tiger Cat,” a term that seemed much more appropriate to the liquids he dispensed232 than to him, for, outside of his questionable233 occupation, the old man was entirely inoffensive and harmless. He was another member of the old time trapping fraternity, and lived alone in a log house on the creek about two miles away.
He had a large collection of Indian relics234, that he had spent many years in accumulating, and he took great delight in showing them to anybody who came to see him. The arrow and spear heads were methodically arranged in long rows on thin smooth boards, and held in place by the heads of tacks235 that overlapped236 their edges. The boards were nailed to 130the walls of faced logs all over the interior of the cabin.
Nearly everybody in the surrounding country had contributed to the collection at one time or another, and it was being added to constantly.
There were many fine specimens of tomahawk heads, stone axes, and other implements237, that had been fashioned with admirable skill. The old man guarded his hoarded238 treasures with a miser’s solicitude, for they were the solace239 of his lonely life. He had refused large offers for the collection as a whole, and never could be induced to part with single specimens, except under pressure of immediate240 necessity.
There are few mental comforts comparable with those of absorbing hobbies. They temper the raw winds and asperities241 of existence to a wonderful degree, and offer a welcome balm of heart interest to lives weary of continued conflict for mythical242 goals. We may smile at them in others, but we realize their deep significance when they are our own.
Poor old Shakes was but another example of one made happy by a harmless fad22, the joys of which might well be coveted243 by those whose millions have brought only fear and sorrow. After it is all over the pursuit of one phantom244 has been as gratifying as the quest of another, for they both end in darkness.
Dick Shakes
131After sitting around for awhile, and listening to the enlivened conversation, and the gossip of the neighborhood, that now circulated freely, the old man bought a package of tobacco in the store, for which he said he had “been stung ten cents,” and left us, with the overcoat, from which the cargo245 had been discharged, hung lightly over his arm.
The assemblage gradually dispersed246. Wirrick, Hyatt, and the jaundiced Viking went down to the river bank and departed in their “push boats.” Doc Dust invited Pop Wilkins to ride with him, and they betook themselves into the shadows. Tipton Posey relighted his pipe and Bill Stiles resumed the story of the horse trade.
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1
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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swirls
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| n.旋转( swirl的名词复数 )；卷状物；漩涡；尘旋v.旋转，打旋( swirl的第三人称单数 ) | |
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scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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17
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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18
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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19
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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20
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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21
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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23
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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24
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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25
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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26
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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27
pelts
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| n. 皮毛，投掷, 疾行 vt. 剥去皮毛，（连续）投掷 vi. 猛击，大步走 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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29
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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30
muskrat
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| n.麝香鼠 | |
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31
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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32
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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33
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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34
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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35
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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36
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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38
referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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39
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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40
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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41
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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42
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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43
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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44
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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45
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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46
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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47
notations
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| 记号，标记法( notation的名词复数 ) | |
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48
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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49
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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50
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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51
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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52
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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53
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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54
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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55
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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56
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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57
muskrats
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| n.麝鼠（产于北美，毛皮珍贵）( muskrat的名词复数 ) | |
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58
mink
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| n.貂，貂皮 | |
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59
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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60
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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62
bellied
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| adj.有腹的，大肚子的 | |
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63
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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64
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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65
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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66
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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67
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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68
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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69
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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70
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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71
tyros
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| n.初学者，新手，生手( tyro的名词复数 ) | |
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72
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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73
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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74
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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75
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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76
complicate
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| vt.使复杂化，使混乱，使难懂 | |
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77
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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78
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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79
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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80
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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81
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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82
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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83
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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84
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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85
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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86
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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87
compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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88
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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89
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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90
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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91
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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92
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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93
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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94
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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95
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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96
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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97
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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98
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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99
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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100
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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101
pilfered
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的过去式和过去分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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102
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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103
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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104
expounder
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| 陈述者，说明者 | |
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105
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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106
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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107
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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108
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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109
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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110
tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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111
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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112
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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113
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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114
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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115
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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116
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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117
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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118
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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119
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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120
besieger
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| n. 围攻者, 围攻军 | |
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121
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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122
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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123
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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124
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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125
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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126
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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127
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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128
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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129
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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130
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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131
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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132
desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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134
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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135
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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136
ascertainable
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| adj.可确定（探知），可发现的 | |
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137
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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138
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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139
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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140
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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141
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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142
shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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143
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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144
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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145
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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146
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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147
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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148
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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149
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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150
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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151
skunks
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| n.臭鼬( skunk的名词复数 )；臭鼬毛皮；卑鄙的人；可恶的人 | |
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152
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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153
sapiently
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154
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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155
depletion
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| n.耗尽，枯竭 | |
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156
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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157
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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158
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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159
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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160
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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161
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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162
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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163
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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164
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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165
chrysanthemum
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| n.菊，菊花 | |
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166
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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167
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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168
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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169
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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170
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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171
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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172
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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173
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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174
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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175
appellations
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| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
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176
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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177
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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178
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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180
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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181
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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182
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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183
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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184
teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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185
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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186
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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187
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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188
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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189
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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190
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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191
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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192
magnesium
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| n.镁 | |
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193
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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194
hoppy
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| （指海洋）波浪起伏的 | |
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195
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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196
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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197
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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198
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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199
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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200
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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201
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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202
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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203
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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204
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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205
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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206
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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207
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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208
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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209
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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210
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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212
expunged
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| v.擦掉( expunge的过去式和过去分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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213
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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214
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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215
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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216
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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217
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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218
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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219
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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220
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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221
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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222
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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223
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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224
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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225
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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226
vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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227
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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228
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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229
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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230
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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231
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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232
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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233
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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234
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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235
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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236
overlapped
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| _adj.重叠的v.部分重叠( overlap的过去式和过去分词 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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237
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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238
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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240
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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241
asperities
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| n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 )；（表面的）粗糙；（环境的）艰苦；严寒的天气 | |
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242
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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243
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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244
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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245
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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246
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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