We turn now to a very different scene—the pier1 and harbour of Ramsgate. The storm-fiend is abroad. Thick clouds of a dark leaden hue2 drive athwart a sky of dingy3 grey, ever varying their edges, and rolling out limbs and branches in random4 fashion, as if they were fleeing before the wind in abject5 terror. The wind, however, is chiefly in the sky as yet. Down below there are only fitful puffs6 now and then, telling of something else in store. The sea is black, with sufficient swell7 on it to cause a few crested8 waves here and there to gleam intensely white by contrast. It is early in the day, nevertheless there is a peculiar9 darkness in the atmosphere which suggests the approach of night. Numerous vessels10 in the offing are making with all speed for Ramsgate harbour, which is truly and deservedly named a “harbour of refuge,” for already some two dozen ships of considerable size, and a large fleet of small craft, have sought and found shelter on a coast which in certain conditions of the wind is fraught11 with danger. About the stores near the piers12, Trinity men are busy with buoys13, anchors, and cables; elsewhere labourers are toiling15, idlers are loafing, and lifeboat—men are lounging about, leaning on the parapets, looking wistfully out to sea, with and without telescopes, from the sheer force of habit, and commenting on the weather. The broad, bronzed, storm-battered coxswain of the celebrated17 Ramsgate lifeboat, who seems to possess the power of feeding and growing strong on hardship and exposure, is walking about at the end of the east pier, contemplating18 the horizon in the direction of the Goodwin Sands with the serious air of a man who expects ere long to be called into action.
The harbour-master—who is, and certainly had need be, a man of brain as well as muscle and energy, to keep the conflicting elements around him in order—moves about actively19, making preparation for the expected gale21.
Early on the morning of the day referred to, Nora Jones threaded her way among the stalls of the marketplace under the town-hall, as if she were in search of some one. Not succeeding in her search, she walked briskly along one of the main thoroughfares of the town, and diverged22 into a narrow street, which appeared to have retired23 modestly into a corner in order to escape observation. At the farther end of this little street, she knocked at the door of a house, the cleanly appearance of which attested24 the fact that its owner was well-doing and orderly.
Nora knocked gently; she did everything gently!
“Is Mrs Moy at home?” she asked, as a very bright little girl’s head appeared.
No sooner was Nora’s voice heard than the door was flung wide open, and the little girl exclaimed, “Yes, she’s at ’ome, and daddy too.” She followed up this assurance with a laugh of glee, and, seizing the visitor’s hand, dragged her into the house by main force.
“Hallo, Nora, ’ow are ’ee, gal20?” cried a deep bass26 voice from the neighbourhood of the floor, where its owner appeared to be smothered27 with children, for he was not to be seen.
Nora looked down and beheld28 the legs and boots of a big man, but his body and head were invisible, being completely covered and held down by four daughters and five sons, one of the former being a baby, and one of the latter an infant.
Dick Moy, who was enjoying his month on shore, rose as a man might rise from a long dive, flung out his great right arm, scattered29 the children like flecks30 of foam31, and sat up with a beaming countenance32, holding the infant tenderly in his left arm. The baby had been cast under the table, where it lay, helpless apparently33, and howling. It had passed the most tender period of life, and had entered on that stage when knocks, cuts, yells, and bruises34 are the order of the day.
“Glad to see you, Nora,” said the man of the floating light, extending his huge hand, which the girl grasped and shook warmly. “You’ll excuse me not bein’ more purlite. I’m oppressed with child’n, as you see. It seems to me as if I’d gone an’ got spliced35 to that there ’ooman in the story-book wot lived in the shoe, an’ had so many child’n she didn’t know wot to do. If so, she knows wot to do now. She’s only got to hand ’em over to poor Dick Moy, an’ leave him to suffer the consickences.—Ah, ’ere she comes.”
Dick rose as he spoke36, and handed a chair to Nora at the moment that his better, but lesser37, half entered.
It must not be supposed that Dick said all this without interruption. On the contrary, he bawled38 it out in the voice of a bo’s’n’s mate, while the four daughters and five sons, including the baby and the infant, crawled up his legs and clung to his pockets, and enacted39 Babel on a small scale.
Mrs Moy was a very pretty, tidy, cheerful little woman, of the fat, fair, and forty description, save that she was nearer thirty-five than forty. It was clear at a glance that she and Dick had been made for each other, and that, had either married anybody else, each would have done irreparable damage to the other.
“Sit down, Nora. I’m so glad to see you. Come to breakfast, I hope? we’re just going to have it.”
Mrs Moy said this as if she really meant it, and would be terribly disappointed if she met with a refusal. Nora tried to speak, but Babel was too much for her.
Babel was hushed.
“Mum’s the word for three minutes,” said Dick, pointing to a huge Yankee clock which stood on the chimney-piece, with a model frigate41 in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on one side of it, and a model light-vessel in a glass case, and a painted sea and sky on the other.
There was profound wisdom in this arrangement. If Dick had ordered silence for an indefinite space of time, there would have been discontent, approximating to despair, in Babel’s bosom42, and, therefore, strong temptation to rebellion. But three minutes embraced a fixed43 and known period of time. The result was a desperate effort at restraint, mingled44 with gleeful anticipation45. The elder children who could read the clock stared eagerly at the Yankee time-piece; the younger ones who couldn’t read the clock, but who knew that the others could, stared intently at their seniors, and awaited the signal. With the exception of hard breathing, the silence was complete; the baby being spell-bound by example, and the feeble remarks of the infant—which had been transferred to the arms of the eldest46 girl—making no impression worth speaking of.
“You are very kind,” said Nora, “I’ll stay for breakfast with pleasure. Grandmother won’t be up for an hour yet, and father’s not at home just now.”
“Werry good,” said Dick, taking a short black pipe out of his coat-pocket, “that’s all right. And ’ow do ’ee like Ramsgate, Nora, now you’ve had a fair trial of it?”
“I think I like it better than Yarmouth; but perhaps that is because we live in a more airy and cheerful street. I would not have troubled you so early, Mr Moy”—(“’Tain’t no trouble at all, Nora; werry much the reverse”)—“but that I am anxious to hear how you got on with poor Billy—”
At this point Babel burst forth47 with redoubled fury. Dick was attacked and carried by storm; the short black pipe was seized, and an old hat was clapped on his head and thrust down over his eyes! He gave in at once, and submitted with resignation. He struck his colours, so to speak, without firing a shot, and for full five minutes breasted the billows of a sea of children manfully, while smart Mrs Moy spread the breakfast-table as quietly as if nothing were going on, and Nora sat and smiled at them.
Suddenly Dick rose for the second time from his dive, flung off the foam, tossed aside the baby, rescued the infant from impending48 destruction, and thundered “Silence! mum’s the word for three minutes more.”
“That’s six, daddy!” cried the eldest boy, whose spirit of opposition49 was growing so strong that he could not help indulging it, even against his own interests.
“No,” said Dick sternly.
“It was three minutes last time,” urged the boy; “an’ you said three minutes more this time; three minutes more than three minutes is six minutes, ain’t it?”
“Three minutes,” repeated Dick, holding up a warning finger.
Babel ceased; the nine pair of eyes (excepting those of the infant) became fixed, and Nora proceeded—
“I wanted to hear how you got on with Billy. Did they take him in at once? and what sort of place is the Grotto50? You see I am naturally anxious to know, because it was a terrible thing to send a poor boy away from his only friend among strangers at such an age, and just after recovering from a bad illness; but you know I could not do otherwise. It would have been his ruin to have—”
She paused.
“To have stopped where he was, I s’pose you would say?” observed Dick. “Well, I ain’t sure o’ that, Nora. It’s quite true that the bad company he’d ’ave seen would ’ave bin51 against ’im; but to ’ave you for his guardian52 hangel might ’ave counteracted53 that. It would ’ave bin like the soda54 to the hacid, a fizz at first and all square arterwards. Hows’ever, that don’t signify now, cos he’s all right. I tuk him to the Grotto, the werry first thing arter I’d bin to the Trinity ’Ouse, and seed him cast anchor there all right, and—”
Again Babel burst forth, and riot reigned55 supreme56 for five minutes more. At the end of that time silence was proclaimed as before.
“Now then,” said Dick, “breakfast bein’ ready, place the chairs.”
The three elder children obeyed this order. Each member of this peculiar household had been “told off,” as Dick expressed it, to a special duty, which was performed with all the precision of discipline characteristic of a man-of-war.
“That’s all right; now go in and win,” said Dick. There was no occasion to appeal to the Yankee clock now. Tongues and throats as well as teeth and jaws57 were too fully16 occupied. Babel succumbed58 for full quarter of an hour, during which period Dick Moy related to Nora the circumstances connected with a recent visit to London, whither he had been summoned as a witness in a criminal trial, and to which, at Nora’s earnest entreaty59, and with the boy’s unwilling60 consent, he had conveyed Billy Towler. We say unwilling, because Billy, during his long period of convalescence61, had been so won by the kindness of Nora, that the last thing in the world he would have consented to bear was separation from her; but, on thinking over it, he was met by this insurmountable difficulty—that the last thing in the world he would consent to do was to disobey her! Between these two influences he went unwillingly62 to London—for the sake of his education, as Nora said to him—for the sake of being freed from the evil influence of her father’s example, as poor Nora was compelled to admit to herself.
“The Grotto,” said Dick, speaking as well as he could through an immense mouthful of bacon and bread, “is an institootion which I ’ave reason for to believe desarves well of its country. It is an institootion sitooate in Paddington Street, Marylebone, where homeless child’n, as would otherwise come to the gallows63, is took in an’ saved—saved not only from sin an’ misery64 themselves, but saved from inflictin’ the same on society. I do assure you,” said Dick, striking the table with his fist in his enthusiasm, so that the crockery jumped, and some of the children almost choked by reason of their food going down what they styled their “wrong throats”—“I do assure you, that it would ’ave done yer ’art good to ’ave seed ’m, as I did the day I went there, so clean and comf’r’able and ’appy—no mistake about that. Their ’appiness was genooine. Wot made it come ’ome to me was, that I seed there a little boy as I ’appened to know was one o’ the dirtiest, wickedest, sharpest little willains in London—a mere65 spider to look at, but with mischief66 enough to fill a six-fut man to bu’stin’—an’ there ’ee was, clean an’ jolly, larnin’ his lessons like a good un—an’ no sham67 neither, cos ’e’d got a good spice o’ the mischief left, as was pretty clear from the way ’ee gave a sly pinch or pull o’ the hair now an’ again to the boys next him, an’ drawed monkey-faces on his slate68. But that spider, I wos told, could do figurin’ like one o’clock, an’ could spell like Johnson’s Dictionairy.
“Well,” continued Dick, after a few moments’ devotion to a bowl of coffee, “I ’anded Billy Towler over to the superintendent69, tellin’ ’im ’ee wos a ’omeless boy as ’adn’t got no parients nor relations, an wos werry much in need o’ bein’ looked arter. So ’ee took ’im in, an’ I bade him good-bye.”
Dick Moy then went on to tell how that the superintendent of the Grotto showed him all over the place, and told him numerous anecdotes70 regarding the boys who had been trained there; that one had gone into the army and become a sergeant71, and had written many long interesting letters to the institution, which he still loved as being his early and only “home;” that another had become an artilleryman; another a man-of-war’s man; and another a city missionary72, who commended the blessed gospel of Jesus Christ to those very outcasts from among whom he had himself been plucked. The superintendent also explained to his rugged73 but much interested and intelligent visitor that they had a flourishing Ragged25 School in connection with the institution; also a Sunday-school and a “Band of Hope”—which latter had been thought particularly necessary, because they found that many of the neglected young creatures that came to them had already been tempted74 and taught by their parents and by publicans to drink, so that the foundation of that dreadful craving76 disease had been laid, and those desires had begun to grow which, if not checked, would certainly end in swift and awful destruction. One blessed result of this was that the children had not only themselves joined, but had in some instances induced their drunken parents to attend the weekly addresses.
All this, and a great deal more, was related by Dick Moy with the wonted enthusiasm and energy of his big nature, and with much gesticulation of his tremendous fist—to the evident anxiety of Nora, who, like an economical housewife as she was, had a feeling of tenderness for the crockery, even although it was not her own. Dick wound up by saying that if he was a rich man, “’ee’d give some of ’is superfloous cash to that there Grotto, he would.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t,” said Nora. “I’ve heard one rich man say that the applications made to him for money were so numerous that he was quite annoyed, and felt as if he was goin’ to become bankrupt!”
“Nora,” said Dick, smiting77 the table emphatically, “I’m not a rich man myself, an’ wot’s more, I never ’xpect to be, so I can’t be said to ’ave no personal notions at all, d’ye see, about wot they feels; but I’ve also heerd a rich man give ’is opinion on that pint78, and I’ve no manner of doubt that my rich man is as good as your’n—better for the matter of that; anyway he knowed wot was wot. Well, says ’ee to me, w’en I went an’ begged parding for axin’ ’im for a subscription79 to this ’ere werry Grotto—which, by the way, is supported by woluntary contribootions—’ee says, ‘Dick Moy,’ says ’ee, ‘you’ve no occasion for to ax my parding,’ says ’ee. ‘’Ere’s ’ow it is. I’ve got so much cash to spare out of my hincome. Werry good; I goes an’ writes down a list of all the charities. First of all comes the church—which ain’t a charity, by the way, but a debt owin’ to the Lord—an’ the missionary societies, an the Lifeboat Institootion, an’ the Shipwrecked Mariners’ Society, and such like, which are the great National institootions of the country that every Christian81 ought to give a helpin’ ’and to. Then there’s the poor among one’s own relations and friends; then the hospitals an’ various charities o’ the city or town in which one dwells, and the poor of the same. Well, arter that’s all down,’ says ’ee, ‘I consider w’ich o’ them ere desarves an’ needs most support from me; an’ so I claps down somethin’ to each, an’ adds it all up, an’ wot is left over I holds ready for chance applicants82. If their causes are good I give to ’em heartily83; if not, I bow ’em politely out o’ the ’ouse. That’s w’ere it is,’ says ’ee. ‘An’ do you know, Dick Moy,’ says ’ee, ‘the first time I tried that plan, and put down wot I thought a fair liberal sum to each, I wos amazed—I wos stunned84 for to find that the total wos so small and left so werry much of my spare cash yet to be disposed of, so I went over it all again, and had to double and treble the amount to be given to each. Ah, Dick,’ says my rich man, ‘if people who don’t keep cashbooks would only mark down wot they think they can afford to give away in a year, an’ wot they do give away, they would be surprised. It’s not always unwillingness85 to give that’s the evil. Often it’s ignorance o’ what is actooally given—no account bein’ kep’.’
“‘Wot d’ye think, Dick,’ my rich man goes on to say, ‘there are some churches in this country which are dependent on the people for support, an’ the contents o’ the plates at the doors o’ these churches on Sundays is used partly for cleanin’ and lightin’ of ’em; partly for payin’ their precentors, and partly for repairs to the buildins, and partly for helpin’ out the small incomes of their ministers; an’ wot d’ye think most o’ the people—not many but most of ’em—gives a week, Dick, for such important purposes?’
“‘I don’ know, sir,’ says I.
“‘One penny, Dick,’ says ’ee, ‘which comes exactly to four shillins and fourpence a year,’ says ’ee. ‘An’ they ain’t paupers87; Dick! If they wos paupers, it wouldn’t be a big sum for ’em to give out o’ any pocket-money they might chance to git from their pauper86 friends, but they’re well-dressed people, Dick, and they seems to be well off! Four an’ fourpence a year! think o’ that—not to mention the deduction88 w’en they goes for a month or two to the country each summer. Four an’ fourpence a year, Dick! Some of ’em even goes so low as a halfpenny, which makes two an’ twopence a year—7 pounds, 11 shillings, 8 pence in a seventy-year lifetime, Dick, supposin’ their liberality began to flow the day they wos born!’
“At this my rich man fell to laughing till I thought ’ee’d a busted89 hisself; but he pulled up sudden, an’ axed me all about the Grotto, and said it was a first-rate institootion, an’ gave me a ten-pun’ note on the spot. Now, Nora, my rich man is a friend o’ yours—Mr Durant, of Yarmouth, who came to Ramsgate a short time ago for to spend the autumn, an’ I got introdooced to him through knowin’ Jim Welton, who got aboord of one of his ships through knowin’ young Mr Stanley Hall, d’ye see? That’s where it is.”
After this somewhat lengthened90 speech, Dick Moy swallowed a slop-bowlful of coffee at a draught—he always used a slop-bowl—and applied91 himself with renewed zest92 to a Norfolk dumpling, in the making of which delicacy93 his wife had no equal.
“I believe that Mr Durant is a kind good man,” said Nora, feeding the infant with a crust dipped in milk, “and I am quite sure that he has got the sweetest daughter that ever a man was blessed with—Miss Katie; you know her, I suppose?”
“She’s a dear creature,” continued Nora—still doing her best to choke the infant—“she found out where I lived while she was in search of a sick boy in Yarmouth, who, she said, was the brother of a poor ragged boy named Billy Towler, she had once met with. Of course I had to tell her that Billy had been deceiving her and had no brother. Oh! you should have seen her kind face, Dick, when I told her this. I do think that up to that time she had lived under the belief that a young boy with a good-looking face and an honest look could not be a deceiver.”
“Poor thing,” said Dick, with a sad shake of the head, as if pitying her ignorance.
“Yes,” continued Nora—still attempting to choke the infant—“she could not say a word at that time, but went away with her eyes full of tears. I saw her often afterwards, and tried to convince her there might be some good in Billy after all, but she was not easily encouraged, for her belief in appearances had got a shake that she seemed to find it difficult to get over. That was when Billy was lying ill in hospital. I have not seen much of her since then, she and her father having been away in London.”
“H’m, I’m raither inclined to jine her in thinkin’ that no good’ll come o’ that young scamp. He’s too sharp by half,” said Dick with a frown. “Depend upon it, Nora, w’en a boy ’as gone a great length in wickedness there’s no chance o’ reclaimin’ him.”
“Dick,” exclaimed Nora, with sudden energy, “depend upon it that that’s not true, for it does not correspond with the Bible, which says that our Lord came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance95.”
“There’s truth in that, anyhow,” replied Dick, gazing thoughtfully into Nora’s countenance, as if the truth had come home to him for the first time. What his further observations on the point might have been we know not, as at that moment the door opened and one of his mates entered, saying that he had come to go down with him to the buoy14-store, as the superintendent had given orders that he and Moy should overhaul96 the old North Goodwin buoy, and give her a fresh coat of paint. Dick therefore rose, wiped his mouth, kissed the entire family, beginning with the infant and ending with “the missis,” after which he shook hands with Nora and went out.
The storm which had for some time past been brewing97, had fairly brewed98 itself up at last, and the wild sea was covered with foam. Although only an early autumn storm, it was, like many a thing out of season, not the less violent on that account. It was one of the few autumn storms that might have been transferred to winter with perfect propriety99. It performed its work of devastation100 as effectively as though it had come forth at its proper season. On land chimney stacks and trees were levelled. At sea vessels great and small were dismasted and destroyed, and the east coast of the kingdom was strewn with wreckage101 and dead bodies. Full many a noble ship went down that night! Wealth that might have supported all the charities in London for a twelvemonth was sent to the bottom of the sea that night and lost for ever. Lives that had scarce begun and lives that were all but done, were cut abruptly102 short, leaving broken hearts and darkened lives in many a home, not only on the sea-coast but inland, where the sound of the great sea’s roar is never heard. Deeds of daring were done that night,—by men of the lifeboat service and the coast-guard,—which seemed almost beyond the might of human skill and courage—resulting in lives saved from that same great sea—lives young and lives old—the salvation103 of which caused many a heart in the land, from that night forward, to bless God and sing for joy.
But of all the wide-spread and far-reaching turmoil104; the wreck80 and rescue, the rending105 and relieving of hearts, the desperate daring, and dread75 disasters of that night we shall say nothing at all, save in regard to that which occurred on and in the neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands.
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1
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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7
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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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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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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31
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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34
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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35
spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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36
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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37
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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38
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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39
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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41
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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42
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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43
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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44
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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45
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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46
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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47
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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49
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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50
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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51
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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52
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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53
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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54
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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55
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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56
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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57
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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58
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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59
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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60
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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61
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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62
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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63
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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64
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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66
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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68
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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72
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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73
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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74
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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75
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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76
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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77
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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79
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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81
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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82
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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83
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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84
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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86
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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87
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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88
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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89
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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90
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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92
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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93
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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94
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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95
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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96
overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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97
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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98
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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99
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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100
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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101
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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102
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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103
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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104
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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105
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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