Like all pilot-boats, the Hermann Oelrichs was built low in the water, so that it was easy to jump aboard.15 Her sails were furled and, from the quiet prevailing6, one might have supposed that the crew had gone into the village. No sound issued until we reached the companionway. Then below we could see the cook scraping cold ashes out of a fireless stove. He was cleaning the cabin and putting things to rights before the pilots arrived. He accepted our intrusion with a friendly glance.
“Captain Rierson told us to come aboard,” we said.
We went about this while the ashes were taken out and tossed overboard. When the cook returned it was with a bucket and brush, and he attacked the oilcloth on the floor industriously13.
“Cozy little cabin, this, eh?”
“Yes, she’s a comfortable little boat,” replied the cook. “These pilots take things purty comfortable. She’s not as fast as some of the boats, but she’s all right in rough weather.”
“Do you encounter much rough weather?”
“Well, now and again,” answered the cook, with the vaguest suggestion of a twinkle in his eye. “It’s purty rough sometimes in winter.”
“How long do you stay out?”
“Sometimes three, sometimes five days, sometimes we get rid of all seven pilots the first day—there’s no telling. It’s all ’cording to how the steamers come in.”
“So we may be out a week?”
“About that. Maybe ten days.”
We went on deck. It was warm and bright. Some16 sailors from the fore8-hatch were scrubbing down the deck, which dried white and warm as fast as they swabbed off the water. Wide-winged gulls14 were circling high and low among the ships of the harbor. On Staten Island many a little curl of smoke rose from the chimneys of white cottages.
That evening the crew of five men kept quietly to their quarters and slept. The moon shone clear until ten, when the barometer15 suddenly fell and clouds came out of the east. By cock-crow it was raining, and by morning it was drizzling16 and cold.
The pilots appeared one after another. They came out to the edge of the cotton wharf17 through the mist and rain, and waved a handkerchief as a signal that a boat should be sent ashore18 for them. One or two, failing to attract the immediate19 attention of the crew, resorted to the expedient20 of calling out: “Schooner, Ahoy!” in voices which partook of some of the stoutness22 of the sea.
“Come ashore, will you?” they shouted, when a head appeared above deck.
No sooner were they recognized than the yawl was launched and sent ashore. They came aboard and descended23 quickly out of the rain into the only room (or cabin) at the foot of the companionway. This was at once their sitting-room24, dining-room, bedroom, and every other chamber25 for the voyage. Here they stowed their satchels26 and papers in lockers27 beneath their individual sleeping berths28. Each one sought out a stout21 canvas clothes bag, which all pilots use in lieu of a trunk, and began to unpack29 his ship’s clothes. All took off their land apparel and dressed themselves in ancient17 seat-patched and knee-worn garments, which were far more comfortable than graceful30, and every one produced the sailor’s essential, a pipe and tobacco.
Dreary31 as was the day overhead, the atmosphere of the cabin changed with their arrival. Not only was it soon thick with the fumes32 of many pipes, but it was bright with genial33 temper. Not one of the company of seven pilots seemed moody34.
“Whose watch is it?” asked one.
“Rierson’s, I think,” was the answer.
“He ain’t here yet.”
“Here he comes now.”
At this a hale Norwegian, clean and hard as a pine knot, came down the companionway.
“My turn to-day, eh? Are we all here?”
“Ay!” cried one.
“Then we might as well go, hey?”
“Ay! Ay!” came the chorus.
“Ay! Ay! sir!” answered the steward.
Then were rattlings and clatterings overhead. While the little company in the cabin were chatting, the work on deck was resulting in a gradual change, and when, after a half-hour, Rierson put his head out into the wind and rain above the companionway, the cotton docks were far in the rear, all but lost in the mist and drizzle37. All sails were up and a stiff breeze was driving the little craft through the Narrows. McLaughlin, the boatman and master of the crew, under Rierson, was at the wheel. Already we were being rocked and tossed like a child in a cradle.
“The pilots themselves.”
“Not all of them?”
“No, not all at one time. The pilot who has the watch has full control for his hours, then the next pilot after him, and so on. No pilot is interfered39 with during his service.”
“And where do we head now?”
“For Sandy Hook and the sea east of that. We are going to meet inbound European steamers.”
The man at the wheel, McLaughlin, was a clean athletic40 young chap, with a straight, full nose and a clear, steady eye. In his yellow raincoat, rubber boots and “sou’wester” he looked to be your true sea-faring man. With the little craft plunging41 ahead in a storm of wind and rain and over ever-increasing billows, he gazed out steadily42 and whistled an airy tune43.
“You seem to like it,” I remarked.
“Yes,” he answered. “It’s not a bad life. Rather cold in winter, but summer makes up for it. Then we’re in port every fifth or sixth day on an average. Sometimes we get a night off.”
“The pilots have it better than that?”
“Oh, yes; they get back quicker. The man who has the first watch may get back to-day, if we meet a steamer. They might all get back if we meet enough steamers.”
“You put a man aboard each one?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know when a steamer wants a pilot?”
19 “Well, we are in the track of incoming steamers. There is no other pilot-boat sailing back and forth44 on this particular track at this time. If a steamer comes along she may show a signal for a pilot or she may turn a little in our direction. Either way, we know she wants one. Then we lay to and wait until she comes up. You’ll see, though. One is likely to come along at any time now.”
The interior of the little craft presented a peculiar45 contrast to storm and sea without. In the fore compartment46 stood the cook at his stove preparing the midday meal. Sailors, when no orders were called from above, lay in their bunks, which curved toward the prow47. The pots and pans of the stove moved restlessly about with the swell48. The cook whistled, timbers creaked, the salt spray swished above the hatch, and mingled49 odors of meats and vegetables combined and thickened the air.
In the after half of the boat were the pilots, making the best of idle time. No steamer was sighted, and so they lounged and smoked. Two or three told of difficulties on past voyages. Two of the stoutest50 and jolliest were met in permanent conflict over a game of pinochle. One read, the others took down pillows from the bunks, and spreading them out on the wide seat that lined two sides of the room, snored profoundly. Nearly all took turns, before or after games, or naps, at smoking. Sometimes all smoked. It was observable that no “listener” was necessary for conversation. Some talked loudly, without a single person heeding51. At times all talked at once in those large imperious voices which20 seem common to the sea. The two old pilots at cards never halted. Storms might come and storms might go; they paused only to renew their pipes.
At the wheel, in tarpaulin52 and sou’wester, McLaughlin kept watch. Sea spray kept his cheeks dripping. His coat was glassy with water. Another pilot put his head above deck.
“How are we heading?”
“East by no’.”
“See anything?”
“A steamer, outbound.”
“Which one?”
“The Tauric.”
“Wish she was coming in!” concluded the inquirer, as he went below.
We kept before the wind in this driving way. All the morning and all the afternoon the rain fell. The cook served a wholesome53 meal of meats and vegetables, and afterwards all pipes were set smoking more industriously than ever. The two old pilots renewed their cards. Every one turned to trifling54 diversions, with the feeling that he must get comfort out of them. It was a little drowsy55, a little uncomfortable, a little apt to make one long for shore. In the midst of the lull56 the voice of the man at the wheel sounded at the companionway.
“Steamer on the port bow! Pilot-boat Number Nine! She’s hailing us.”
“Well, what does she want?”
“Can’t make out yet.”
One and all hastened on deck. On our left, in the21 fog and rain, tossed a little steamer which was recognized as the steam pilot-boat stationed at Sandy Hook. She was starboarding to come nearer and several of her pilots and crew were at her rail hailing us. As she approached, keener ears made out that she wanted to put two men aboard us.
“We don’t want any more men aboard here,” said one. “We’ve got seven now.”
“No!” said several in chorus. “Tell ’em we can’t take ’em.”
“We can’t take any more,” shouted the helmsman, in long-drawn sounds. “We’ve got seven aboard now.”
“Orders to put two men aboard ye,” came back over the tumbling waters. “We’ve a sick man.”
“Don’t let ’em put any more men aboard here. Where they goin’ to sleep?” argued another. “One man’s got to bunk10 it as it is, unless we lose one pretty soon.”
“How you goin’ to help it? They’re puttin’ their men out.”
“Head away! Head away! They can’t come aboard if you head away!”
“Oh, well; it’s too late now.”
It was really too late, for the steamer had already cast a yawl and the two men, together with the crew, were in it and heading over the churning water. All watched them as they came alongside and clambered on.
They were Jersey57 pilots who had been displaced on the other boat because one of their number had been taken sick and more room was needed to make him comfortable. He was thought to be dying, and must be taken back to New York at once, and his condition22 formed the topic of conversation for the rest of the day.
Meanwhile our schooner headed outward, with nothing to reward her search. At five o’clock there was some talk of not finding anything before morning. Several advised running toward Princess Bay on Staten Island and into stiller water, and as the minutes passed the feeling crystallized. In a few minutes all were urging a tack11 toward port, and soon it was done. Sails were shifted, the prow headed shoreward, and gradually, as the track of the great vessels58 was abandoned, the waters became less and less rough, then more and more quiet, until finally, when we came within distant sight of Princess Bay and the Staten Island shore, the little vessel only rocked from side to side; the pitching and churning were over.
It was windy and cold on deck, however, and after the crew had dropped anchor they remained below. There was nothing to do save idle the time. The few oil lamps, the stove-fire and the clearing away of dishes after supper, gave the cabin of the fore-and-aft a very home-like appearance.
Forward, most of the sailors stretched in their bunks to digest their meal. There were a few magazines and papers on the table, a few decks of cards and a set of checkers. It was interesting to note the genial mood of the men. One might fancy oneself anywhere but at sea, save for the rocking of the boat. It was more like a farmhouse59 kitchen. One little old sailor, grizzled and lean, had only recently escaped from a Hongkong trader, where he had been sadly abused. Another was a mere60 boy, who belonged to Staten Island. He had23 been working in a canning factory all winter, he said, but had decided61 to go to sea for a change. It was not his first experience; this alternating was a regular thing with him. The summer previous he had worked as cook’s scullion on one of the other pilot-boats; this summer he was a sailor.
The Staten Islander had the watch on deck from ten to twelve that night. By that time the rain had ceased and the lights on the distant shore were visible, glimmering62 faintly, it seemed good to be on deck. The wind blew slightly chill and the waters sipped64 and sucked at the prow and sides. Coming above I chatted with the young sailor.
“Do you like sea life?” I asked him.
“There ain’t much to it.”
“Would you rather be on shore?”
“Well, if I didn’t have to work so hard.”
“You like one, then, as well as the other?”
“Well, on shore the hours are longer, but you get your evenings and Sundays. Out here there ain’t any hour your own, but there’s plenty days when there’s nothin’ doin’. Some days there ain’t no wind. Sometimes we cruise right ahead without touchin’ the sails. Still, it’s hard, ’cause you can’t see nobody.”
“What would you do if you were on shore?”
“Oh, go to the show.”
It developed that his heart yearned65 for “nights off.” The little, bright-windowed main street in New Brighton was to his vision a kind of earthly heaven. To be there of an evening when people were passing, to loaf on the corner and see the bright-eyed girls go by, to be in24 the village hubbub66, was to him the epitome67 of living. The great, silent, suggestive sea meant nothing to him.
After a while he went below and tumbled in and McLaughlin, the boatman, took the turn. In the cabin most of the pilots had gone to bed. Yet the two old salts were still at pinochle, browbeating68 each other, but in a subdued69 tone. All pipes were out. Snores were numerous and long.
At dawn the pilot whose turn it was to guide the next steamer into New York took the wheel. We sailed out into the east and the morning, looking for prey70. It came soon, in the shape of a steamer.
“Steamer!” called the pilot, and all the other pilots turned out and came on deck. The sea to the eastward71, whither they were looking, was utterly72 bare of craft. Not a sail, not a wisp of smoke! Yet they saw something and tacked12 ship so as to swing round and sail toward it. Not even the telescope revealed it to my untrained eyes until five minutes had gone by, when afar off a speck73 appeared above the waters. It came on larger and larger, until it assumed the proportions of a toy.
With the first announcement of a steamer the pilot who was to take this one in gave the wheel to the pilot who was to have the next one. He seemed pleased at getting back to New York so soon. While the ship was coming forward he went below and changed his clothes. In a few minutes he was on deck, dressed in a neat business suit and white linen74. His old clothes had all been packed in a grain sack. He had a bundle of New York papers and a light overcoat over his arm.
25 “How did you know that steamer wanted a pilot?” I asked him.
“I could tell by the way she was heading.”
“Do you think she saw you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you always tell when a steamer so far off wants a pilot?”
“Nearly always. If we can’t judge by her course we can see through the telescope whether she has a signal for a pilot flying.”
“And when you go aboard her what will you do?”
“Go to the bridge and direct her course.”
“Do you take the wheel or do any work?”
“Not at all.”
“What about your breakfast?”
“I’ll take that with the officers of the deck.”
“Do you always carry a bundle of papers?”
“Sure. The officers and passengers like to get early news of New York. Sometimes the papers are pretty old before we hand them out, but they’re better than nothing.”
He studied the approaching steamer closely through the glass.
“The Ems,” he said laconically75. “Get the yawl ready, boys.”
Four sailors went to the lee side and righted the boat there. The great vessel was plowing76 toward us at a fine rate. Every minute she grew larger, until at half a mile she seemed quite natural.
“Heave the yawl,” called the man at the wheel.
Over went the boat with a splash, and two men after26 and into it. They held it close to the side of the schooner until the departing pilot could jump in.
“Cast loose!” said the man at the wheel to the men holding the rope.
“Ay! Ay! sir!” they replied.
“Good-by, Billie,” called the pilots.
“So long, boys,” he cried back.
Our schooner was moving swiftly away before the wind. The man in the yawl pulled out toward where the steamer must pass. Already her engines had stopped, and the foam77 at her prow was dying away. One could see that a pilot was expected. Quite a crowd of people, even at that early hour, was gathered at the rail. A ladder of rope was hanging over the side, almost at the water’s edge.
The little yawl bearing the pilot pulled square across the steamer’s course. When the vessel drifted slowly up, the yawl nosed the great black side and drifted back by the ladder. One of the steamer’s crew threw down a rope, which the oarsman of the yawl caught. This held the yawl still, close to the ladder, and the pilot, jumping for a good hold, began slowly to climb upward. No sooner had he seized the rope ladder than the engines started and the steamer moved off. The little yawl, left alone like a cork78 on a thrashing sea, headed toward us. The schooner tacked and came round in a half circle to pick it up, which was done with safety.
This was a busy morning. Before breakfast another ship had appeared, a tramp steamer, and a pilot was dressing79 to board her. Down the fore hatch could be seen the cook, frying potatoes and meat, and boiling27 coffee. The change in weather was pleasing to him, too, for he was singing as he clattered80 the dishes and set the table. In the cabin the pipes of the pilots were on, and the two old salts were at pinochle harder than ever.
Another pilot left before breakfast, and after he was gone another steamer appeared, this time the Paris. It looked as though we would soon lose all our pilots and have to return to New York. After the pilot had gone aboard the Paris, however, the wind died down and we sailed no more. Gradually the sea grew smoother, and we experienced a day of perfect idleness. Hour after hour the boat rocked like a cradle. Seagulls gathered around and dipped their wings in charming circles. Flocks of ducks passed northward81 in orderly flight, honking82 as they went. A little land-bird, a poor, bedraggled sparrow, evidently blown to sea by adverse83 winds, found rest and salvation84 in our rigging. Now it was perched upon the main boom, and now upon the guy of the gaff-topsail, but ever and anon, on this and the following day it could be seen, sometimes attempting to fly shoreward, but always returning after a fruitless quest for land. No vessel appeared, however. We merely rocked and waited.
The sailors in the forecastle told stories. The pilots in the rear talked New York politics and criminal mysteries. The cook brewed85 and baked. Night fell upon one of the fairest skies that it is given us earthlings to behold86. Stars came out and blinked. The lightship at Sandy Hook cast a far beacon87, but no steamer took another pilot that day.
Once during the watch that night it seemed that a28 steamer far off to the southeastward was burning a blue light, the signal for a pilot. The man at the wheel scanned the point closely, then took a lighted torch made of cotton and alcohol and circled it slowly three times in the air. No answering blue light rewarded him. Another time there grew upon the stillness the far-off muffled88 sound of a steamer’s engine. You could hear it distinctly, a faint “Pump, pump, pump, pump, pump.” But no light could be seen. The signal torch was again waved, but without result. The distinct throb89 grew less and less, and finally died away. Some of the pilots commented as to this but could not explain it. They could not say why a vessel should travel without lights at night.
At midnight a little breeze sprang up and the schooner cruised about. In one direction appeared a faint glimmer63, which when approached, proved to be the riding light of a freight steamer at anchor. All was still and dark aboard her, save for two or three red and yellow lights, which gleamed like sleepless90 eyes out of the black hulk. The man at the wheel called a sailor.
“Go forward, Johnnie,” he said, “and hail her. See if she wants a pilot.”
The man went to the prow and stood until the schooner drew quite near.
No answer.
“Steamer, ahoy!” he called again. A light moved in the cabin of the other vessel. Finally a voice answered.
“Want a pilot?” asked our sailor.
“We have one,” said the dim figure, and disappeared.
29 “Is it one of the pilots of your association that they have?” I asked.
“Yes; they couldn’t have any other. They probably picked him up from one of our far-out boats. Every incoming steamer must take a pilot, you know. That’s the law. All pilots belong to this one association. It’s merely a question of our being around to supply them.”
It turned out from his explanation that the desire of the pilots to get a steamer was merely to obtain their days off. When a pilot brings in a steamer it is not likely that he will be sent out again for three days. Each one puts in about the same number of days a month, and all get the same amount of pay. There is no rivalry92 for boats, and no loss of money by missing a steamer. If one boat misses her, another is sure to catch her farther in. If she refuses to take a pilot the Government compels her owners to pay a fine of fifty dollars, the price of a pilot to take her in.
On the third day now breaking we were destined93 to lose another pilot. It was one of the two inveterate94 pinochlers.
That night we anchored off Babylon, Long Island, in the stillest of waters. The crew spent the evening lounging in their bunks and reading, while the remaining pilots amused themselves as usual. Two of them engaged for a time in a half-hearted game of cards. One told stories, but with the departure of so many the spirits of the company drooped95. There was no breeze. The flap-flap of the sails went on monotonously96. Breakfast30 came, and then nine o’clock, and still we rocked in one spot. Then a steamer appeared. As usual, it was announced long before my untrained eyes could discern it. But, with the first word, the remaining valiant97 pinochler went below to pack. He was back in a few minutes, very much improved in spirits and appearance.
“Does she starboard any?” he asked the man at the wheel.
The latter used the telescope and then said:
“Don’t seem to, sir.”
“Think she sees us?”
“Can’t tell, sir,” said the boatman gravely.
“Spec’ we’d better fire the gun, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You strip the gun. I’ll take the wheel.”
So a little gun—a tiny cannon98, no less—was made ready and while it was being put in place at the lee rail, Germond, the oldest of the pilots, came on deck and took the wheel.
“Yes,” said the pinochler.
“Well, that’s right. Blaze away.”
The boatman, who had superintended the charging of the gun, now pulled a wire attached to a cap and the little cannon spat100 out a flame with a roar that shook the boat.
“Do they do this often?” I asked the footman.
“Not very. When fogs are on and boats can’t find31 us it comes in handy. There’s hardly any use in this case. I guess she sees us.”
Germond, at the wheel, seemed to enjoy playing warship101, for he called out: “Fire again, Johnnie!”
“Won’t she turn?” asked the restless pinochler.
“Don’t seem to.”
“Then,” said he, and cast a droll102 look of derision upon the midget cannon and the immense steamer, “sink her!”
With the third shot, however, we could see the steamer begin to turn, and in a little while she was headed toward us. We could not move and so we waited, while the anxious pinochler walked the deck. Long before she was near he ordered the yawl ready, and when she was yet three-quarters of a mile off, cast over and jumped aboard. He seemed somewhat afraid the yawl would not be seen, and so took along with him a pilot flag, which was a square of blue cloth fastened to a long bamboo pole. This he held aloft as the men rowed, and away they went far over the green sea.
The cook served coffee at three, and was preparing supper when another steamer was sighted. She came up rapidly, a great liner from Gibraltar, with a large company of Italians looking over the rail.
“No supper for you,” said Germond. “You’ll have to eat with the Dagos.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” returned the other, smiling. “I want to get back to New York.”
Just before supper, and when the sun was crimsoning103 the water in the west, a “catspaw” came up and filled32 our sails. The boat moved slowly off. At supper Germond announced:
“Well, I go now.”
“Is there a steamer?”
“No, but I go on the other pilot-boat. I see her over there. The last man always leaves his boat and goes on one with more men. That allows this boat to go back for another crew.”
“Do you get the first steamer in, on the other boat?”
“Yes, I have the first turn.” I understood now why our crew, at the outset, objected to any pilots being taken on our boat. It delayed the return of those on board to New York. “Steward!” called Germond, finally, “tell one of the men back there to run up a signal for the other boat.”
“Ay! Ay! sir!” called back the steward.
At half after six the other pilot-boat drew near and Germond packed his sea clothes and came up on deck.
“Well, here she is, boys,” he said. “Now I leave you.”
They put out the yawl and he jumped in. When he had gone we watched him climbing aboard the other schooner.
“Now for New York!” exclaimed McLaughlin, the boatswain, and master of the crew in the absence of any pilot.
“Do we sail all night?”
“To get there by morning we’ll have to.”
All sails were then hoisted104, and we bore away slowly. Darkness fell. The stars came out. Far away the revolving105 light of the Highlands of Navesink was our33 guide. Far behind, the little pilot-boat which had received Germond was burning a beacon for some steamer which had signaled a blue light. Gradually this grew more and more dim, and the gloom enveloped106 all.
We sat with subdued spirits at the prow, discussing the dangers of the sea. McLaughlin, who had been five years in the service, told of accidents and disappearances107 in the past. Once, out of the night had rushed a steamer, cutting a boat such as ours in two. One pilot-boat that had gone out two years ago had never returned. Not a stick or scrap7 was found to indicate what had become of her fifteen men. He told how the sounding of the fog-horns had chilled his heart the first year of his service, and how the mournful lapping of the waters had filled him with dread108. And as we looked and saw nothing but blackness, and listened and heard nothing but the sipping109 of the still waters, it did seem as though the relentless110 sea merely waited its time. Some day it might have them all, sailor and cook, and where now were rooms and lockers would be green water and strange fishes.
That night we slept soundly. A fine wind sprang up, and when morning came we were scurrying111 home over a thrashing sea. We raced past Sandy Hook and put up the bay. By eight o’clock we were at the Narrows, with the Battery in sight. The harbor looked like a city of masts. After the lonely sea it seemed alive with a multitude of craft. Tugs112 went puffing113 by. Scows and steamers mingled. Amid so much life the sea seemed safe.
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1
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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7
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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industriously
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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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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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22
stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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23
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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24
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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25
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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26
satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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27
lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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28
berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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29
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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30
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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31
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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32
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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33
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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34
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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35
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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36
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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37
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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38
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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39
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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40
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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41
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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42
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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43
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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46
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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47
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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48
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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49
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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50
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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51
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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52
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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53
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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54
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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55
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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56
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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57
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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58
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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59
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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60
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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61
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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63
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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64
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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67
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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68
browbeating
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的现在分词 ) | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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71
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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74
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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75
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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76
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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77
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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78
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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79
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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80
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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81
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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82
honking
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| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的现在分词 ) | |
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83
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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84
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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85
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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86
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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87
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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88
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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89
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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90
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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91
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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92
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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93
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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94
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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95
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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97
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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98
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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99
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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100
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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101
warship
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| n.军舰，战舰 | |
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102
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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103
crimsoning
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| 变为深红色（crimson的现在分词形式） | |
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104
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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106
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
disappearances
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| n.消失( disappearance的名词复数 )；丢失；失踪；失踪案 | |
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108
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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109
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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110
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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111
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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112
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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