The “Sailors’ Welcome”—Miles has a Night of it and Enlists—His Friend Armstrong has an Agreeable Surprise at the Soldiers’ Institute.
It was not long before our hero discovered the reason of Jack1 Molloy’s solicitude2 about his appearance. It was that he, Miles, should pass for a sailor, and thus be in a position to claim the hospitality of the Sailors’ Welcome,—to the inner life of which civilians4 were not admitted, though they were privileged, with the public in general, to the use of the outer refreshment-room.
“Come here, Jack Molloy,” he said, leading his friend aside, when he made this discovery. “You pride yourself on being a true-blue British tar5, don’t you?”
“I does,” said Jack, with a profound solemnity of decision that comported6 well with his character and condition.
“And you would scorn to serve under the French flag, or the Turkish flag, or the Black flag, or any flag but the union Jack, wouldn’t you?”
“Right you are, mate; them’s my sentiments to a tee!”
“Well, then, you can’t expect me to sail under false colours any more than yourself,” continued Miles. “I scorn to sail into this port under your straw hat, so I’ll strike these colours, bid you good-bye, and make sail for another port where a civilian3 will be welcome.”
Molloy frowned at the floor for some moments in stern perplexity.
“You’ve took the wind out o’ my sails entirely7, you have,” he replied at last; “an’ you’re right, young man, but I’m troubled about you. If you don’t run into this here port you’ll have to beat about in the offing all night, or cast anchor in the streets, for I don’t know of another lodgin’ in Portsm’uth w’ere you could hang out except them disrepitible grog-shops. In coorse, there’s the big hotels; but I heerd you say to Sloper that you was bound to do things cheap, bein’ hard up.”
“Never mind, my friend,” said Miles quickly. “I will manage somehow; so good-night, and many thanks to you for the interest you have taken in—”
“Avast, mate! there’s no call to go into action in sitch a hurry. This here Sailors’ Welcome opens the doors of its bar an’ refreshment-room, an’ spreads its purvisions before all an’ sundry8 as can afford to pay its moderate demands. It’s on’y the after-cabin you’re not free to. So you’ll have a bit supper wi’ me before you set sail on your night cruise.”
Being by that time rather hungry as well as fatigued10, Miles agreed to remain for supper. While they were engaged with it, he was greatly impressed with the number of sailors and marines who passed into the reading-room beyond the bar, or who sat down at the numerous tables around to have a hearty12 supper, which they washed down with tea and coffee instead of beer or gin—apparently13 with tremendous appetite and much satisfaction.
“Look ye here,” said Jack Molloy, rising when their “feed” was about concluded, “I’ve no doubt they won’t object to your taking a squint14 at the readin’-room, though they won’t let you use it.” Following his companion, Miles passed by a glass double door into an enormous well-lighted, warm room, seventy feet long, and of proportionate width and height, in which a goodly number of men of the sea were busy as bees—some of them reading books or turning over illustrated16 papers and magazines, others smoking their pipes, and enjoying themselves in rocking-chairs in front of the glowing fire, chatting, laughing, and yarning17 as free-and-easily as if in their native fo’c’s’ls, while a few were examining the pictures on the walls, or the large models of ships which stood at one side of the room. At the upper end a full-sized billiard-table afforded amusement to several players, and profound interest to a number of spectators, who passed their comments on the play with that off-hand freedom which seems to be a product of fresh gales18 and salt-water. A door standing19 partly open at the upper end of this apartment revealed a large hall, from which issued faintly the sound of soft music.
“Ain’t it snug20? and there’s no gamblin’ agoin’ on there,” remarked Molloy, as they returned to their table; “that’s not allowed—nor drinkin’, nor card-playin’, but that’s all they putt a stop to. She’s a wise woman is Miss Robinson. She don’t hamper21 us wi’ no rules. Why, bless you, Jack ashore22 would never submit to rules! He gits more than enough o’ them afloat. No; it’s liberty hall here. We may come an’ go as we like, at all hours o’ the day and night, an’ do exactly as we please, so long as we don’t smash up the furnitur’, or feed without payin’, or make ourselves a gineral noosance. They don’t even forbid swearin’. They say they leave the matter o’ lingo23 to our own good taste and good sense. An’ d’you know, it’s wonderful what an’ amount o’ both we’ve got w’en we ain’t worried about it! You’ll scarce hear an oath in this house from mornin’ to evenin’, though you’ll hear a deal o’ snorin’ doorin’ the night! That’s how the place takes so well, d’ee see?”
“Then the Welcome is well patronised, I suppose?”
“Patronised!” exclaimed the seaman24; “that’s so, an’ no mistake. Why, mate—But what’s your name? I’ve forgot to ax you that all this time!”
“Call me Miles,” said our hero, with some hesitation25.
“Call you Miles! Ain’t you Miles?”
“Well, yes, I am; only there’s more of my name than that, but that’s enough for your purpose, I daresay.”
“All right. Well, Miles, you was askin’ how the house is patronised. I’ll tell ’ee. They make up about two hundred an’ twenty beds in it altogether, an’ these are chock-full a’most every night. One way or another they had forty-four thousand men, more or less, as slep’ under this roof last year—so I’ve bin9 told. That’s patronisin’, ain’t it? To say nothin’ o’ the fellers as comes for—grub, which, as you’ve found, is good for the money, and the attendants is civil. You see, they’re always kind an’ attentive26 here, ’cause they professes27 to think more of our souls than our bodies—which we’ve no objection to, d’ee see, for the lookin’ arter our souls includes the lookin’ arter our bodies! An’ they don’t bother us in no way to attend their Bible-readin’s an’ sitchlike. There they are in separate rooms; if you want ’em you may go; if you don’t, you can let ’em alone. No compulsion, which comes quite handy to some on us, for I don’t myself care much about sitchlike things. So long’s my body’s all right, I leaves my soul to look arter itself.”
As the seaman said this with a good-natured smile of indifference28, there sprang to the mind of his young companion words that had often been impressed on him by his mother: “What shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” but he made no reference to this at the time.
“Hows’ever,” continued Molloy, “as they don’t worrit us about religion, except to give us a good word an’ a blessin’ now an’ again, and may-hap a little book to read, we all patronises the house; an it’s my opinion if it was twice as big as it is we’d fill it chock-full. I would board as well as sleep in it myself—for it’s full o’ conveniences, sitch as lockers29 to putt our things in, an’ baths, and what not, besides all the other things I’ve mentioned—but the want o’ drink staggers me. I can’t git along without a drop o’ drink.”
Miles thought that his nautical30 friend appeared to be unable to get along without a good many drops of drink, but he was too polite to say so.
“Man alive!” continued Jack Molloy, striking his huge fist on his thigh31 with emphasis; “it’s a wonderful place is this Welcome! An’ it’s a lively place too. Why, a fellow hanged his-self in one o’ the bunks32 overhead not long ago.”
“You don’t mean that?” exclaimed Miles, rather shocked.
“In course I does. But they heard ’im gaspin’, an cut him down in time to save him. It was drink they say as made him do it, and they got him to sign the pledge arterwards. I believe he’s kep’ it too. Leastwise I know many a hard drinker as have bin indooced to give it up and stuck to it—all through comin’ here to have a snooze in a comfortable hunk. They give the bunks names—cubicles they calls ’em in the lump. Separately, there’s the ‘Commodore Goodenough Cot,’ an’ the ‘Little Nellie Cot,’ an’ the ‘Sunshine Cot’—so called ’cause it hain’t got a port-hole to let in the daylight at all; and the ‘Billy Rough ’un’—”
“The what?”
“‘The Billy Rough ’un’—arter the ship o’ that name, you know—”
“Oh! you mean the Bellerophon.”
“Well, young man, an’ didn’t I say the ‘Billy Rough ’un’? Then there’s the— But what’s your hurry?” said the seaman, as Miles rose.
“It’s getting late now, friend. If I’m to find another lodging33 I must be off. Doubtless, I’ll find some respectable house to take me in for the night.” Miles suppressed a yawn as he put on his cap.
“I don’t believe you will,” returned Molloy, also rising, and giving full vent15 to a sympathetic and vociferous34 yawn. “Hows’ever, w’en a young feller insists on havin’ his way, it’s best to give him plenty of cable and let him swing. He’s sure to find out his mistake by experience. But look ye here, Miles, I’ve took a fancy to you, an’ I’d be sorry to think you was in difficulties. If,” he continued, thrusting a hand into his breeches-pocket, and bringing up therefrom a mass of mixed gold, silver, and copper—“if you don’t objec’ to accep’ of a loan of—”
“Thank you—no, my friend. It is very kind of you,” said Miles quickly; “but I have quite enough for present necessities. So good-night.”
“All right,” returned the sailor, thrusting the money back into his pocket. “But if you should ever want a jaw35 with Jack Molloy while you’re in this here port you’ve only got to hail him at the Sailors’ Welcome, an’ if he should happen to be out, they always can tell you where he’s cruisin’. Good-night, an’ luck go wi’ ye!”
Another tremendous yawn finished the speech, and next moment Miles found himself in the street, oppressed with a strange and miserable36 sensation which he had never before experienced. Indeed, he had to lean against the house for a few minutes after coming out into the fresh air, and felt as if the power of connected thought was leaving him.
He was aroused from this condition by the flashing of a light in his eyes. Opening them wide, he beheld37 a policeman looking at him earnestly.
“Now, then, young fellow,” said the guardian38 of the night; “d’you think you can take care of yourself?”
“Oh! yes, quite well. It’s only a giddy feeling that came over me. I’m all right,” said Miles, rousing himself and passing on.
He staggered slightly, however, and a short “Humph!” from the policeman showed that he believed the youth to be something more than giddy.
Ashamed to be even unjustly supposed to be intoxicated39, Miles hurried away, wondering very much what could be the matter with him, for he had not tasted a drop of strong drink, except the half-glass of beer he had swallowed before Molloy chanced to knock it out of his hand. Suddenly he remembered that the sailor had said the beer was drugged. If he could have asked the barman who had served him, that worthy40 could have told him that this was true; that the whole glassful, if swallowed, would, ere long, have rendered him insensible, and that what he had already taken was enough to do him considerable damage.
As he walked onward41, he became rapidly worse; the people and the streets seemed to swim before him; an intense desire to sleep overpowered every other feeling, and at last, turning into a dark entry, he lay down and pillowed his head on a door-step. Here he was found by a policeman; a stretcher was fetched, and he was conveyed to the station as “drunk and incapable42!”
When brought before the Inspector43 the following morning, shame and reckless despair were the tenants44 of his breast. Those tenants were not expelled, but rather confirmed in possession, when the Inspector—after numerous questions, to which Miles returned vague unsatisfactory replies—adopted the r?le of the faithful friend, and gave him a great deal of paternal45 advice, especially with reference to the avoidance of strong drink and bad companions.
Miles had the wisdom, however, to conceal46 his feelings, and to take the reproof47 and advice in good part. Afterwards, on being set free, he met a recruiting sergeant48, who, regarding him as a suitable subject for the service of her Majesty49, immediately laid siege to him. In his then state of mind the siege was an easy one. In short, he capitulated at once and entered the Queen’s service, under the name of John Miles.
We need scarcely say that his heart misgave50 him, that his conscience condemned51 him, and that, do what he would, he could not shut out the fact that his taking so hasty and irrevocable a step was a poor return for all the care and anxiety of his parents in years gone by. But, as we have said, or hinted, Miles was one of those youths who, when they have once made up their minds to a certain course of action, fancy that they are bound to pursue it to the end. Hence it was that he gave his name as John Miles instead of Miles Milton, so that he might baffle any inquiries52 as to what had become of him.
Once enlisted53, he soon began to realise the fact that he was no longer a free agent—at least not in the sense in which he had been so up to that period of his life. Constant drill was the order of the day for some weeks; for there was a demand for more troops for Egypt at the time, and regiments54 were being made up to their full strength as fast as possible.
During this period Miles saw little of his companions in arms personally, save that group of recruits who were being “licked into shape” along with him. At first he was disappointed with these, for most of them were shy, unlettered men; some, raw lads from the country; and others, men who seemed to have been loafers before joining, and were by no means attractive.
The drill-sergeant, however, was a good, though stern man, and soon recognised the differences in character, aptitude56, and willingness among his raw recruits. This man, whose name was Hardy57, made a powerful impression on our hero from the first; there was something so quiet and even gentle about him, in spite of his firm and inflexible58 demands in regard to the matters of drill and duty. To please this man, Miles gave himself heart and soul to his work, and was soon so efficient as to be allowed to join the regiment55.
And here he found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that the sergeant and young soldier with whom he had travelled to Portsmouth were members of the company to which he was attached. As we have said, Miles had taken a great fancy at first sight to the young private, whose name was William Armstrong. Our hero was of an affectionate disposition59, and would have allowed his warm feelings to expend60 themselves on a dog rather than have denied them free play. No wonder, then, that he was attracted by the handsome manly61 countenance62 and deferential63 manner of Armstrong, who, although an uneducated youth, and reared in the lower ranks of life, was gifted with those qualities of the true gentleman which mere64 social position can neither bestow65 nor take away. His intellect also was of that active and vigorous fibre which cannot be entirely repressed by the want of scholastic66 training.
The affection was mutual67, for the contrasts and similarities of the two men were alike calculated to draw them together. Both were tall, broad, square-shouldered, erect68, and soldierly, yet, withal, modest as well in demeanour as in feeling, and so exactly like to each other in size and figure, and in the quiet gravity of their expressions, that they might well have been taken for twin brothers. When, in uniform, the two strode along the streets of Portsmouth, people were apt to turn and look at them, and think, no doubt, that with many such men in the British army it would go hard with the foes69 of Old England!
The bond of union was still further strengthened by the fact that while the comparatively learned Miles was enthusiastic and communicative, the unlettered Armstrong was inquisitive70 and receptive, fond of prying71 into the nature of things, and always ready as well as competent to discuss—not merely to argue. Observe the distinction, good reader. Discussion means the shaking of any subject into its component72 parts with a desire to understand it. Argument has come very much to signify the enravelment of any subject with a view to the confusion and conquest of an opponent. Both young men abhorred73 the latter and liked the former. Hence much of their harmony and friendship.
“Will you come with me up town?” said Armstrong to Miles one day, as he was about to quit the barrack-room. “I’m going to see if there’s any news of my Emmy.”
“I did not know you expected her,” said Miles. “Come along, I’m ready.”
“I don’t expect her yet,” returned Armstrong, as they left the barracks; “I only look for a letter, because it was on Wednesday that I wrote telling her of my going to Egypt, and she can scarce have had time to get ready to come down, poor girl! In fact I am going to engage a room for her. By the way, I heard this morning that there’s to be another draft for Egypt, so you’ll have a chance to go.”
“I’m rejoiced to hear it,” returned Miles; “for, to say the truth, I had been growing envious74 of your good fortune in being ordered on active service.”
“Hooroo, Armstrong, where away now?” cried an unmistakably Irish voice, as a smart little soldier crossed the street to them, and was introduced to Miles as Corporal Flynn, belonging to another company in his own regiment.
“My blissin’ on ye, Miles. John, is it?”
“Yes, John,” replied our hero, much amused at the free-and-easy address of the little corporal.
“Well, John Miles,” he said, “I don’t know whether ye’ll laugh or cry whin I tell ye that you’ll likely be warned this evenin’ for the draft that’s goin’ to Aigypt.”
“I certainly won’t cry,” returned Miles, with a laugh. Yet the news brought a sudden feeling into his breast which was strongly allied75 to the opposite of laughter, for the thought of parting from father and mother without bidding them farewell fell upon his spirit with crushing weight; but, like too many men who know they are about to do wrong, Miles hardened his heart with the delusive76 argument that, having fairly taken the step, it was impossible for him now to retrace77 it. He knew—at least he thought—that there was still the possibility of being bought off, and that his stern father would only be too glad to help him. He also knew that at least he had time to write and let them know his circumstances, so that they might run down to Portsmouth and bid him good-bye; but he had taken the bit in his teeth, and now he resolved to abide78 the consequences.
“Your chum’s in the blues,” said the lively corporal, in a lower voice.
“Young fellows are often in that state after joining, ain’t they?” returned Armstrong.
“True for ye—an’ more shame to them, whin they ought to be as proud as paycocks at wearin’ her gracious Majesty’s uniform. But good luck to ’ee! I must be off, for I’m bound for Aigypt mesilf.”
“I am glad that I shall have the chance of seeing your wife, for I’ve been much interested in her since your friend Sergeant Gilroy told me about her,” said Miles, as they resumed their walk. “Surely it is hard of them to refuse to let her go with the regiment.”
“Well, it is hard,” returned the young soldier; “but after all I cannot find fault with the powers that be, for I married with my eyes open. I knew the rule that those who marry without leave must leave their wives at home, for only a certain number of families can go abroad with a regiment—and that only in peace-time.”
“It might have been well,” continued Armstrong, slowly, while a sad expression clouded his face for a few moments, “if I had waited, and many a time has my conscience smitten80 me for my haste. But what could I do? Emmy most unaccountably fell in love wi’ me—thank God! for I do think that the greatest earthly blessing81 that can be given to mortal man is the love of a gentle, true-hearted girl. The wealth of the Indies cannot purchase that, and nothing else in life can supply the want of it. Can you wonder that I grasped the treasure when within my reach?”
“I certainly cannot; and as certainly I do not blame you,” returned the sympathetic Miles.
“Of course I fell in love with Emmy,” continued the soldier, with a slightly confused look. “I could no more help that than I could help growing up. Could I?”
“Certainly not,” said Miles.
“Well, you see,” continued his friend, “as the affair was arranged in heaven, according to general belief, what was I that I should resist? You see, Emmy’s father, who’s a well-to-do farmer, was willing, and we never gave a thought to Egypt or the war at the time. She will be well looked after while I’m away, and I’ll send her every penny of my pay that I can spare, but—”
He stopped abruptly82, and Miles, respecting his feelings, remarked, by way of changing the subject, that the pay of a private soldier being so small very little could be saved out of that.
“Not much,” assented83 his comrade; “but, little as it is, we can increase it in various ways. For one thing, I have given up smoking. That will save a little; though, to say truth, I have never expended84 much on baccy. Then I have joined Miss Robinson’s Temperance Band—”
“Strange how often that lady’s name has been in my ears since I came to Portsmouth!” said Miles.
“Not so strange after all,” returned Armstrong, “when one reflects that she has been the means of almost changing the character of the town within the last few years—as far at least as concerns the condition of soldiers, as well as many of the poorer classes among its inhabitants—so Sergeant Gilroy tells me.”
As some of the information given by Sergeant Gilroy to the young soldier may be interesting to many readers, we quote a few of his own words.
“Why, some years ago,” he said, “the soldiers’ wives, mothers, and sisters who came down here to see the poor fellows set sail for foreign parts found it almost impossible to obtain lodgings85, except in drinking-houses which no respectable woman could enter. Some poor women even preferred to spend a winter night under railway arches, or some such shelter, rather than enter these places. And soldiers out of barracks had nowhere else to go to for amusement, while sailors on leave had to spend their nights in them or walk the streets. Now all that is changed. The Soldiers’ Institute supplies 140 beds, and furnishes board and lodging to our sisters and wives at the lowest possible rates, besides reception-rooms where we can meet our friends; a splendid reading-room, where we find newspapers and magazines, and can write our letters, if we like, in peace and quiet; a bar where tea and coffee, bread and butter, buns, etcetera, can be had at all reasonable hours for a mere trifle; a coffee and smoking room, opening out of which are two billiard-rooms, and beyond these a garden, where we can get on the flat roof of a house and watch the arrival and departure of shipping86. There is a small charge to billiard-players, which pays all expenses of the tables, so that not a penny of the Institute funds is spent on the games. Of course no gambling87 is allowed in any of Miss Robinson’s Institutes. Then there are Bible-class rooms, and women’s work-rooms, and a lending library, and bathrooms, and a great hall, big enough to hold a thousand people, where there are held temperance meetings, lectures with dissolving views, entertainments, and ‘tea-fights,’ and Sunday services. No wonder that, with such an agency at work for the glory of God and the good of men, Portsmouth is almost a new place. Indeed, although Miss Robinson met with powerful opposition88 at first from the powers that be, her Institute is now heartily89 recognised and encouraged in every way at the Horse Guards. Indeed, it has recently been visited by the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge, and highly approved of by these and other grandees90.”
While the two soldiers were chatting about the past and present of the Institute they arrived at its door.
They entered the house as he spoke92. The reception-room is on the right of the passage. Armstrong opened the door and looked in, but, instead of advancing, he stood transfixed, gazing before him open-mouthed as though he had seen a spectre, for there, in front of the fire, sat a beautiful, refined-looking girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, gazing pensively93 at the flickering94 flames.
“Emmy!”
“Oh, Willie!”
These were exclamations96 which would have revealed all in a moment, even though Emmy had not sprung up and rushed into Willie’s open arms. How she ever emerged from the embrace of those arms with unbroken bones is a mystery which cannot be solved, but she did emerge in safety, and with some confusion on observing that Miles had witnessed the incident with admiring gaze!
“Never mind him, Emmy,” said the young soldier, laughing; “he’s a good friend, a comrade. Shake hands with him.”
The action, and the ease of manner with which Emmy obeyed, proved that grace and small hands are not altogether dependent on rank or station.
“Excuse me,” said Miles, after a few words of salutation; “I’ll go and have a look at the library.”
So saying he quitted the room, leaving the young couple alone; for there chanced to be no other visitors to the reception-room at the time. In the lobby he found several soldiers and a couple of sailors enjoying coffee at the bar, and was about to join them when a man came forward whose dress was that of a civilian, though his bearing proclaimed him a soldier.
“Hallo, Brown,” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “d’ye know that a troop-ship has just come in!”
“Know it? of course I do; you may trust the people of this house to be first in hearing such news.”
“Mr Tufnell told me of it. I’m just going down to the jetty to boil the kettle for them.”
As he spoke, two ladies of the Institute descended97 the broad staircase, each with a basket on her arm.
They entered into conversation for a few minutes with the soldiers at the bar, and it was abundantly evident to Miles, from the kindly98 tone of the former and the respectful air of the latter, that they were familiar acquaintances, and on the best of terms.
“Are you all ready, Brown?” asked one of the ladies of the soldier-like civilian, whom we have already mentioned.
“All ready, Miss; a man has already gone to order the bread and butter and light the fire. I hear the vessel99 is crowded, so we may expect a full house to-night.”
Miles pricked100 up his ears on hearing this, and when Brown went out, leaving the two ladies to finish their conversation with the soldiers, he followed him.
“Pardon me,” he said, on overtaking the man. “Did I understand correctly that a troop-ship has just arrived?”
“Right,” said Brown. “I am just going down to the embarkation101 jetty to get coffee ready for the men. You seem to have joined but a short time, apparently, for though I am familiar with your uniform I have not seen yourself before.”
“True, it is not long since I joined, and this is my first visit to the Institute.”
“I hope it won’t be the last, friend,” returned Brown heartily. “Every soldier is welcome there, and, for the matter of that, so is every sailor and marine11.”
“I have heard as much. May I accompany you to this jetty to see the troops arrive, and this coffee business that you speak of?”
“You may, and welcome,” said Brown, leading his companion through the town in the direction of the docks, and chatting, as they walked along, about the army and navy; about his own experiences in the former; and about the condition of soldiers at the present time as contrasted with that of the days gone by.
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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yarning
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的现在分词形式） | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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21
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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lockers
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| n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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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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33
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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34
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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42
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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77
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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78
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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80
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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81
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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82
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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83
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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85
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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86
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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87
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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88
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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92
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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95
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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96
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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97
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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98
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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99
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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100
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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