“What are ye howlin’ there for, an’ blockin’ up the Queen’s highway like that, you precious young villain3?” demanded Morley Jones.
“An’ wot are you breakin’ the Queen’s laws for like that?” retorted Billy Towler, dancing into the middle of the road and revolving4 his small fists in pugilistic fashion. “You big hairy walrus5, I don’t know whether to ’ave you up before the beaks7 for assault and battery or turn to an’ give ’ee a good lickin’.”
Mr Jones showed all his teeth with an approving grin, and the small boy grinned in return, but still kept on revolving his fists, and warning the walrus to “look hout and defend hisself if he didn’t want his daylights knocked out or his bows stove in!”
“You’re a smart youth, you are,” said Jones.
“Ha! you’re afraid, are you? an’ wants to make friends, but I won’t ’ave it at no price. Come on, will you?”
Jones, still grinning from ear to ear, made a rush at the urchin8, who, however, evaded9 him with such ease that the man perceived he had not the smallest chance of catching10 him.
“I say, my lad,” he asked, stopping and becoming suddenly grave, “where d’you come from?”
“I comes from where I b’longs to, and where I’m agoin’ back to w’en it suits me.”
“Very good,” retorted Jones, “and I suppose you don’t object to earn a little money in an easy way?”
“Yes, I do object,” replied Billy; “it ain’t worth my while to earn a little money in any way, no matter how easy; I never deals in small sums. A fi’ pun’ note is the lowest figur’ as I can stoop to.”
“You’ll not object, however, to a gift, I daresay,” remarked Jones, as he tossed a half-crown towards the boy.
Billy caught it as deftly11 as a dog catches a bit of biscuit, looked at it in great surprise, tossed it in the air, bit its rim12 critically, and finally slid it into his trousers pocket.
“Well, you know,” he said slowly, “to obleege a friend, I’m willin’ to accept.”
“Now then, youngster, if I’m willing to trust that half-crown in your clutches, you may believe I have got something to say to ’ee worth your while listenin’ to; for you may see I’m not the man to give it to ’ee out o’ Christian13 charity.”
“That’s true,” remarked Billy, who by this time had become serious, and stood with his hands in his pockets, still, however, at a respectful distance.
“Well, the fact is,” said Mr Jones, “that I’ve bin14 lookin’ out of late for a smart lad with a light heart and a light pocket, and that ain’t troubled with much of a conscience.”
“That’s me to a tee,” said Billy promptly15; “my ’art’s as light as a feather, and my pocket is as light as a maginstrate’s wisdom. As for conscience, the last beak6 as I wos introdooced to said I must have bin born without a conscience altogether; an’ ’pon my honour I think he wos right, for I never felt it yet, though I’ve often tried—’xcept once, w’en I’d cleaned out the pocket of a old ooman as was starin’ in at a shop winder in Cheapside, and she fainted dead away w’en she found it out, and her little grand-darter looked so pale and pitiful that I says to myself, ‘Hallo! Walleye, you’ve bin to the wrong shop this time; go an’ put it back, ye young dog;’ so I obeyed orders, an’ slipped back the purse while pretendin’ to help the old ooman. It wos risky16 work, though, for a bobby twigged17 me, and it was only my good wind and tough pair o’ shanks that saved me. Now,” continued the urchin, knitting his brows as he contemplated18 the knotty19 point, “I’ve had my doubts whether that wos conscience, or a sort o’ nat’ral weakness pecooliar to my constitootion. I’ve half a mind to call on the Bishop20 of London on the point one o’ these days.”
“So, you’re a city bird,” observed Jones, admiringly.
“Ah, and I can see that you’re a provincial21 one,” replied Billy, jingling22 the half-crown against the silver in his pocket.
“What brings you so far out of your beat, Walleye?” inquired Jones.
“Oh, I’m on circuit just now, makin’ a tower of the provinces. I tried a case just before you came up, an’ made three shillins out of it, besides no end o’ promises—which, unfort’nately, I can’t awail myself of—from a sweet young lady, with such a pleasant face, that I wished I could adopt her for a darter. But that’s an expensive luxury, you see; can’t afford it yet.”
“Well, youngster,” said Jones, assuming a more grave yet off-hand air, “if you choose to trust me, I’ll put you in the way of makin’ some money without much trouble. It only requires a little false swearing, which I daresay you are used to.”
“No, I ain’t,” retorted the urchin indignantly; “I never tells a lie ’xcept w’en I can’t help it. Then, of course, a feller must do it!”
“Just so, Walleye, them’s my sentiments. Have you got a father?”
“No, nor yet a mother,” replied Billy. “As far as I’m aweer of, I wos diskivered on the steps of a city work’us, an’ my first impressions in this life wos the knuckles24 of the old woman as banged me up. The governor used to talk a lot o’ balderdash about our bein’ brought up; but I knows better. I wos banged up; banged up in the mornins, banged to meals, and banged to bed; banged through thick and thin, for everything an’ for nothin’, until I banged myself out o’ the door one fine mornin’, which I banged arter me, an’ ’ave bin bangin’ about, a gen’lem’n at large, ever since.”
“Ha! got no friends and nothin’ to do?” said Morley Jones.
“Jis so.”
“Well, if you have a mind to take service with me, come along an’ have a pot o’ beer.”
The man turned on his heel and walked off to a neighbouring public-house, leaving the small boy to follow or not as he pleased, and apparently25 quite indifferent as to what his decision might be.
Billy Towler—alias Walleye—looked after him with an air of uncertainty26. He did not like the look of the man, and was about to decide against him, when the jingle27 of the half-crown in his pocket turned the scale in his favour. Running after him, he quietly said, “I’m your man,” and then began to whistle, at the same time making an abortive28 effort to keep step with his long-limbed employer, who said nothing in reply, but, entering a public-house, ordered two pots of beer. These, when produced, he and his little companion sat down to discuss in the most retired29 box in the place, and conversed30 in low tones.
“What was it brought you to Yarmouth, Walleye?” asked Mr Jones.
“Call me Billy,” said the boy, “I like it better.”
“Well, Billy—and, by the way, you may call me Morley—my name’s Jones, but, like yourself, I have a preference. Now, then, what brought you here?”
“H’m, that involves a story—a hanecdote, if I may so speak,” replied this precocious31 youngster with much gravity. “You see, some time arter I runn’d away from the work’us, I fell’d in with an old gen’lem’n with a bald head an’ a fat corpus. Do ’ee happen to know, Mr Morley, ’ow it is that bald heads an’ fat corpuses a’most always go together?”
Morley replied that he felt himself unable to answer that difficult question; but supposed that as good-humour was said to make people fat, perhaps it made them bald also.
“I dun know,” continued Billy; “anyhow, this old gen’lem’n he took’d a fancy to me, an’ took’d me home to his ’otel; for he didn’t live in London—wos there only on a wisit at the time he felled in love with me at first sight. Well, he give me a splendacious suit of noo clo’es, an ’ad me put to a school, where I soon larned to read and write; an’ I do b’lieve wos on the highroad to be Lord Mayor of London, when the old schoolmaster died, before I’d bin two year there, an’ the noo un wos so fond o’ the bangin’ system that I couldn’t stand it, an’ so bid ’em all a tender farewell, an’ took to the streets agin. The old gen’lem’n he comed three times from Yarmouth, where he belonged, for to see me arter I wos put to the school, an’ I had a sort o’ likin’ for him, but not knowin’ his name, and only been aweer that he lived at Yarmouth, I thought I’d have no chance o’ findin’ him. Over my subsikint career I’ll draw a wail23; it’s enough to say I didn’t like either it or my pals32, so I made up my mind at last to go to Yarmouth an’ try to find the old gen’lem’n as had adopted me—that’s what he said he’d done to me. W’en I’d prigged enough o’ wipes to pay my fare down, I comed away,—an’ here I am.”
“Have you seen the old gentleman?” asked Morley, after a pause.
“No, only just arrived this arternoon.”
“And you don’t know his name, nor where he lives?”
“No.”
“By gittin’ employment, of coorse, from some respectable gen’lem’n like yourself, an’ then runnin’ away from ’im w’en I’d diskivered the old chap wi’ the bald head.”
Morley Jones smiled grimly.
“Well, my advice to you is,” he said, “to fight shy of the old chap, even if you do discover him. Depend upon it the life you would lead under his eye would be one of constant restraint and worry. He’d put you to school again, no doubt, where you’d get banged as before—a system I don’t approve of at all—and be made a milksop and a flunkey, or something o’ that sort—whereas the life you’ll lead with me will be a free and easy rollikin’ manly35 sort o’ life. Half on shore and half at sea. Do what you like, go where you will,—when business has bin attended to—victuals and clothing free gratis36, and pocket-money enough to enable you to enjoy yourself in a moderate sort of way. You see I’m not goin’ to humbug37 you. It won’t be all plain sailin’, but what is a man worth if he ain’t fit to stand a little rough-and-tumble? Besides, rough work makes a fellow take his ease with all the more zest38. A life on the ocean wave one week, with hard work, and a run on shore the next week, with just enough to do to prevent one wearyin’. That’s the sort o’ thing for you and me, Billy, eh boy?” exclaimed the tempter, growing garrulous39 in his cups, and giving his small victim a pat on the shoulder, which, although meant to be a facetious40 touch, well-nigh unseated him.
Billy Towler recovered himself, however, and received it as it was meant, in perfect good humour. The beer had mounted to his own little brain, and his large eyes glowed with more than natural light as he sat gazing into his companion’s rugged41 face, listening with delight to the description of a mode of life which he thought admirably suited to his tastes and capabilities42. He was, however, a shrewd little creature. Sad and very rough experience of life had taught him to be uncommonly43 circumspect44 for his years.
“What’s your business, Morley?” he demanded eagerly.
“I’ve a lot of businesses,” said Mr Jones with a drunken leer, “but my principal one is fishcuring. I’m a sort of shipowner too. Leastwise I’ve got two craft—one bein’ a sloop45, the other a boat. Moreover, I charter no end of vessels46, an’ do a good deal in the insurance way. But you’ll understand more about these things all in good time, Billy. I live, while I’m at home, in Gravesend, but I’ve got a daughter and a mother livin’ at Yarmouth, so I may say I’ve got a home at both places. It’s a convenient sort o’ thing, you see,—a town residence and a country villa2, as it were. Come, I’ll take you to the villa now, and introduce ’ee to the women.”
So saying, this rascal47 paid for the poison he had been administering in large doses to himself and his apprentice48, and, taking Billy’s dirty little hand in his large horny fist, led him towards the centre of the town.
Poor Billy little knew the nature of the awful gulf49 of sin and misery50 into which he was now plunging51 with a headlong hilarious52 vivacity53 peculiarly his own. He was, indeed, well enough aware of the fact that he was a thief, and an outcast from society, and that he was a habitual54 breaker of the laws of God and man, but he was naturally ignorant of the extent of his guilt55, as well as of the certain and terrible end to which it pointed56, and, above all, he had not the most remote conception of the almost hopeless slavery to which he was doomed57 when once fairly secured in the baleful net which Morley Jones had begun to twine58 around him.
But a higher Power was leading the poor child in a way that he knew not—a way that was little suspected by his tempter—a way that has been the means of snatching many and many a little one from destruction in time past, and that will certainly save many more in time to come—as long as Christian men and women band together to unite their prayers and powers for the rescue of perishing souls.
Traversing several streets with unsteady gait—for he was now much the worse of drink—Mr Jones led his willing captive down one of those innumerable narrow streets, or passages, termed “rows,” which bear some resemblance to the “closes” of the Scottish capital. In width they are much the same, but in cleanliness there is a vast difference, for whereas the closes of the northern capital are notorious for dirt, the rows of Yarmouth are celebrated59 for their neat tidy aspect. What the cause of the neatness of the latter may be we cannot tell, but we can bear the testimony60 of an eye-witness to the fact that—considering the class of inhabitants who dwell in them, their laborious61 lives and limited means—the rows are wondrously62 clean. Nearly all of them are paved with pebbles63 or bricks. The square courts opening out of them on right and left, although ridiculously small, are so thoroughly64 scoured65 and swept that one might roll on their floors with white garments and remain unsoiled. In each court may be observed a water-bucket and scrubbing-brush wet, usually, from recent use, also a green painted box-garden of dimensions corresponding to the court, full of well-tended flowers. Almost every door has a wooden or stone step, and each step is worn and white with repeated scrubbings—insomuch that one is irresistibly66 led to suspect that the “Bloaters” must have a strong infusion67 of the Dutch element in their nature.
Emerging at the lower end of the row, Mr Jones and his small companion hastened along the centre of a narrow street which led them into one of much wider dimensions, named Friar’s Lane. Proceeding68 along this for some time, they diverged69 to the right into another of the rows not far from the old city-wall, at a place where one of the massive towers still rears its rugged head as a picturesque70 ruin. The moon sailed out from under a mass of clouds at this point, giving to objects the distinctness of daylight. Hitherto Billy Towler had retained some idea of the direction in which he was being led, but this last turn threw his topographical ideas into utter confusion.
“A queer place this,” he remarked, as they emerged from the narrowest passage they had yet traversed into a neat, snug71, and most unexpected little square, with a garden in the middle of it, and a flagstaff in one corner.
“Adam-and-Eve gardens, they call it,” said Mr Jones; “we’re pretty nigh home now.”
“I wonder they didn’t call it Eden at once,” observed Billy; “it would have been shorter and comes to the same thing.”
“Here we are at last,” said Mr Jones, stumbling against a small door in one of the network of rows that surrounded this Yarmouth paradise. “Hope the women are in,” he added, attempting to lift the latch72, but, finding that the door was locked, he hammered at it with foot and fist violently.
“Hallo!” shouted the deep voice of a man within.
The door was opened at once by James Welton, who stood aside to let the other pass.
“Oh! it’s you, is it?” said Mr Jones. “Didn’t recognise your voice through the door. I thought you couldn’t have got the sloop made snug so soon. Well, lass, how are ’ee; and how’s the old ooman?”
As the man made these inquiries74 in a half-hearty voice, he advanced into a poorly-furnished apartment, so small and low that it seemed a couple of sizes too small for him, and bestowed75 a kiss first upon the cheek of his old mother, who sat cowering76 over the fire, but brightened up on hearing his voice, and then upon the forehead of his daughter Nora, the cheerfulness of whose greeting, however, was somewhat checked when she observed the intoxicated77 state of her father.
Nora had a face which, though not absolutely pretty, was intensely winsome78 in consequence of an air of quiet womanly tenderness which surrounded it as with a halo. She was barely eighteen, but her soft eyes possessed79 a look of sorrow and suffering which, if not natural to them, had, at all events, become habitual.
“Who is this little boy, father?” she said, turning towards Billy Towler, who still stood in the doorway80 a silent but acute observer of all that went on.
“Oh, that? why—a—that’s my noo ’prentice just come down from Gravesend. He’s been helpin’ for some time in the ‘hang’” (by which Mr Jones meant the place where his fish were cured), “and I’m goin’ to take him to sea with me next trip. Come in, Billy, and make yourself at home.”
The boy obeyed with alacrity81, and made no objection to a cup of tea and slice of bread and butter which Nora placed before him—supper being just then in progress.
“You’d better get aboard as soon as may be,” said Jones to Jim Welton somewhat sternly. “I didn’t expect you to leave the sloop tonight.”
“And I didn’t intend to leave her,” replied Jim, taking no notice of the tone in which this was said; “but I thought I’d come up to ask if you wished me to begin dischargin’ early to-morrow morning.”
“No, we’re not going to discharge,” returned Jones.
“Not going to discharge!” echoed Jim in surprise. “No. I find that it’s not worth while discharging any part of the cargo82 here. On the contrary, I mean to fill up with bloaters and run over with them to the coast of France; so you can go and stow the top tier of casks more firmly, and get ready for the noo ones. Good-night.”
The tone in which this was said left no excuse for Jim to linger, so he bade the household good-night and departed.
He had not gone far, however, when he was arrested by the sound of a light footstep. It was that of Nora, who had followed him.
“Nora!” exclaimed the young sailor in surprise, returning quickly and taking one of the girl’s hands in both of his.
“Oh, Jim!” said Nora, with a look and tone of earnest entreaty83, “don’t, don’t forsake84 him just now—if the love which you have so often professed85 for me be true, don’t forsake him, I beseech86 you.”
Jim protested in the most emphatic87 terms that he had no intention of forsaking88 anybody, and made a great many more protestations, in the midst of which there were numerous ardent89 and more or less appropriate references to hearts that never deserted90 their colours, sheet-anchors that held on through thick and thin, and needles that pointed, without the smallest shadow of variation, to the pole.
“But what makes you think I’m going to leave him?” he asked, at the end of one of those flights.
“Because he is so rough to ’ee, Jim,” replied the girl, leaning her head on her lover’s shoulder; “he spoke91 so gruff even now, and I thought you went away huffed. Oh, Jim, you are the only one that has any influence over him—”
“Not the only one,” returned Jim, quietly smoothing the fair girl’s hair with his hard strong hand.
“Well, the only man, at any rate,” continued Nora, “especially when he is overcome with that dreadful drink. Dear Jim, you won’t forsake him, will you, even though he should insult, even though he should strike you?”
“No, never! Because he is your father, Nora, I’ll stick by him in spite of all he can say or do to me, and try, God helping92 me, to save him. But I cannot stick by him if—”
“If what?” asked the girl anxiously, observing that he hesitated.
“If he does anything against the laws,” said Jim in a low voice. “It isn’t that I’m afraid of my good name—I’d even let that go, for your sake, if by so doing I could get him out of mischief93; and as long as I know nothing against him for certain, I’ll stand by him. But if he does fall, and I come to know it, I must leave him, Nora, because I won’t be art and part in it. I could no longer go on my knees to pray for him if I did that, Nora. Moreover, if anything o’ that sort should happen, I must leave the country, because he’d be sure to be caught and tried, and I will never stand witness against your father if I can avoid it by fair means.”
Poor Nora hung her head as she asked in a low voice if Jim really thought her father was engaged in illegal practices.
“I can’t say that I do,” replied the youth earnestly. “Come, cheer up, dearest Nora. After all, it is chiefly through reports that my suspicions have been aroused, and we all know how easy it is for an enemy to raise an evil report. But, Nora, I wish you had not bound me to secrecy94 as to my reason for sticking by your father. Why should I not say boldly that it’s all for love of you?”
“Why should you wish to give any reason at all, Jim, and above all, that reason?” asked Nora, looking up with a blush.
“Because,” said the youth, with a perplexed95 look, “my secrecy about the matter has puzzled my father to such an extent that his confidence in me is entirely96 shaken. I have been all my life accustomed to open all my heart to him, and now, without rhyme or reason, as he thinks, I have suddenly gone right round on the other tack97, and at the same time, as he says, I have taken up with doubtful company. Now, if—”
The sound of approaching footsteps here brought the interview to an abrupt98 close. Nora ran back to her poor home, and Jim Welton, directing his steps towards the harbour, returned on board the little sloop which had been named after the girl of his heart.
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1
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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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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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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15
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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twigged
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| 有细枝的，有嫩枝的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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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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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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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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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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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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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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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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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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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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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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