The speaker is a loud young man, clad in garments of violence. The derby tilted1 over eye, the black cigar jutting3 ceilingward at an agle of sixty degrees, the figured shirt whereof a dominating dye is angry red, the high collar and flash tie, with its cheap stone, all declare the Bowery. As if to prove the proposition announced of his costume, the young man is perched on a stool, the official ticket-seller of a Bowery theatre.
Mike Menares, whom the Bowery person alludes5 to as the “mut,” is a square-shouldered boy of eighteen; handsome he is as Apollo, yet with a slow, good-humored guilelessness of face. He has come on business bent7. That mighty8 pugilist, the Dublin Terror, is nightly on the stage, offering two hundred dollars to any amateur among boxers9 who shall remain before him four Queensberry rounds. Mike Menares, he of the candidly11 innocent countenance12, desires to proffer13 himself as a sacrifice.
“Youse is just in time, sport,” remarks the brisk gamin to whom Mike has been committed, as he pilots the guileless one to the stage door. “It’s nine o’clock now, an’ d’ Terror goes on to do his bag-t’umpin’ turn at ten. After that comes d’ knockin’ out, see! But say! if youse was tired of livin’, why didn’t you jump in d’ East river? I’d try d’ river an’d’ morgue before I’d come here to be murdered be d’ Terror.”
Mike makes no retort to this, lacking lightness of temper. His gamin conductor throws open the stage door and signals Mike to enter.
“Tell d’ butcher here’s another calf15 for him,” vouchsafes16 the gamin to the stage-hands inside the door.
Let us go back four hours to a three-room tenement17 in Pitt Street. There are two rooms and a little kennel18 of a kitchen. The furnishings are rough and cheap and clean. The lady of the tenement, as the floors declare, is a miracle of soap and water. And the lady is little Mollie Lacy, aged19 eleven years.
The family of the Pitt Street tenement is made up of three. There is Mike Menares, our hero; little Mollie; and, lastly, her brother Davy, aged nine. Little Davy is lame20. He fell on the tenement stairs four years before and injured his hip21. The hospital doctors took up the work where the tenement stairs left off, and Davy came from his sick-bed doomed22 to a crutch23 for life.
Mike Menares is half-brother of the younger ones. Nineteen years before, Mike’s mother, Irish, with straw-colored hair and blue eyes, wedded24 one Menares, a Spanish Jew. This fortunate Menares was a well-looking, tall man; with hair black and stiffening25 in a natural pompadour. He kept a tobacco stall underneath26 a stair in Park Row, and was accounted rich by the awfully27 poor about him. He died, however, within the year following Mike’s birth; and thus there was an end to the rather thoroughbred dark Spanish Jew.
Mike’s mother essayed matrimony a second time. She selected as a partner in this experiment a shiftless, idle, easy creature named David Lacy, who would have been a plasterer had not his indolence defeated his craft. Little Mollie, and Davy of the clattering29 crutch, occurred as a kind of penalty of the nuptials30.
Three years and a half before we encounter this mixed household, Lacy, the worthless, sailed away on a China ship without notice or farewell. Some say he was “shanghaied,” and some that he went of free will. Mrs. Lacy adopted the former of the two theories.
“David Lacy, too idle to work ashore31, assuredly would not go to sea where work and fare are tenfold harder.”
Thus argued Mrs. Lacy. Still, a solution of Lacy’s reasons for becoming a mariner32 late in life is not here important. He sailed and he never returned; and as Mrs. Lacy perished of pneumonia33 the following winter, they both may be permitted to quit this chronicle to be meddled34 with by us no further.
Mike Menares had witnessed fifteen years when his mother died. As suggested, he is a singularly handsome boy, and of an appearance likely to impress. From his Conemara mother, he received a yellow head of hair. Underneath are a pair of jet black brows, a hawkish35 nose, double rows of strong white teeth, and deep soft black eyes, as honest as a hound’s, the plain bestowal36 of his Jewish father.
Mike was driving a delivery wagon37 for the great grocers, Mark & Milford, when his mother died. This brought six dollars a week. After the sad going of his mother, Mike found a second situation where he might work evenings, and thereby38 add six further dollars to that stipend39 from Mark & Milford. This until the other day continued. On twelve dollars a week, and with little Mollie—a notable housekeeper40—to manage for the Pitt Street tenement, the composite house of Menares and Lacy fared well.
Mike’s evening labors41 require a description. One Sarsfield O’Punch, an expert of boxing and an athlete of some eminence42, maintains a private gymnasium on Fifty-ninth street. This personage is known to his patrons as “Professor O’Punch.” Mike, well-builded and lithe43, broad of shoulder, deep of lung, lean of flank, a sort of half-grown Hercules, finds congenial employ as aid to Professor O’Punch. Mike’s primal44 duty is to box with those amateurs of the game who seek fistic enlightenment of his patron, and who have been carried by that scientist into regions of half-wisdom concerning the bruising45 art for which they moil. From eight o’clock until eleven, Mike’s destiny sets him, one after the other, before a full score of these would-be boxers, some small and some big, some good and some bad, some weak and some strong, but all zealous46 to a perspiring47 degree. These novices48 smite49 and spare not, and move with all their skill and strength to pummel Mike. They have, be it said, but indifferent success; for Mike, waxing expert among experts, side-steps and blocks and stops and ducks and gets away; and his performances in these defensive50 directions are the whisper of the school.
Now and then he softly puts a glove on some eager face, or over some unguarded heart, or feather-like left-hooks some careless jaw51, to the end that the other understand a peril52 and fend53 against it. But Mike, working lightly as a kitten, hurts no one; such being the private commands of Professor O’Punch who knows that to pound a pupil is to lose a pupil.
It is to be doubted if the easy-natured Mike is aware of his wonderful strength of arm and body, or the cat-like quickness and certainty of his blows. During these three years wherein he has been underling to Professor O’Punch, Mike strikes but two hard blows. One evening several of the followers55 of Professor O’Punch are determining their prowess on a machine intended to register the force of a blow. Following each other in a fashion of punching procession, these aspiring56 gymnasts, putting their utmost into the swings, strike with all steam. Four hundred to five hundred pounds says the register; this is vaunted as a vastly good account.
Mike, with folded arms and stripped to ring costume—his official robes—is looking on, a smile lighting57 his pleasant face. Mike is ever interested and ever silent.
As the others smite, Mike beams with approval, but makes no comment. At last one observes:
“Menares, how many pounds can you strike?”
“I don’t know,” replies Mike, in a surprised way, “I never tried.”
“Try now,” says the other; “I’ve a notion you could hit hard enough if you cared to.”
The others second the speaker. Much and instant curiosity grows up as to what Mike can do with his hands if he puts his soul into it. There is not an amateur about but knows more of Mike than does the latter of himself. They know him as one perfect of defensive boxing; also, they recall the precise feather-like taps which Mike confers on the best of their muster58 whenever he chooses; but none has a least of knowledge of how bitterly hard Mike’s glove might be sent home should ever his heart be given to the trial.
Being urged, Mike begins to rouse; he himself grows curious. It has never come to him as a thought to make the experiment. The “punching machine” has stood there as part of the paraphernalia59 of the gymnasium. But to the fog-witted Mike, who comes to work for so many dollars a week and who has not once considered himself in the light of a boxer10, whether excellent or the reverse, it held no particular attraction. It could tell him no secrets he cares a stiver to hear.
Now, Mike for a first time feels moved to a bit of self-enlightenment. Poising60 himself for the effort, Mike, with the quickness of light, sends in a right-hand smash that all but topples the contrivance from its base. For the moment the muscles of his back and leg knot and leap in ropelike ridges61; and then they as instantly sink away. The machine registers eight hundred and ninety-one pounds.
The on-gazers draw a long breath. Then they turn their eyes on Mike, whose regular outlines, with muscles retreated again into curves and slopes and shimmering62 ripples63, have no taint54 of the bruiser, and whose handsome features, innocent of a faintest ferocity, recall some beautiful statue rather than anything more viciously hard.
Mike’s second earnest blow comes off in this sort. He is homeward bound from gymnasium work one frosty midnight. Not a block from his home, three evil folk of the night are standing64 beneath an electric light. Mike, unsuspicious, passes them. Instantly, one delivers a cut at Mike’s head with a sandbag. Mike, warned by the shadow of uplifted arm, springs forward out of reach, wheels, and then as the footpad blunders towards him, Mike’s left hand, clenched65 and hammerlike, goes straight to his face. Bone and teeth are broken with the shock of it; blood spurts66, and the footpad comes senseless to the pave. His ally, one of the other two, grasps at Mike’s throat. His clutch slips on the stern muscles of the athlete’s neck as if the neck were a column of brass67. Mike seizes his assailant’s arm with his right hand; there is a twist and a shriek68; the second robber rolls about with a dislocated fore-arm. The third, unharmed, flies screeching69 with the fear of death upon him.
At full speed comes a policeman, warned of his duty by the howls of anguish70. He surveys the two on the ground; one still and quiet, the other groaning71 and cursing with his twisted arm. The officer sends in an ambulance call. Then he surveys with pleased intentness the regular face of Mike, cool and unperturbed.
“An Irish Sheeny!” softly comments the officer to himself.
He is expert of faces, is the officer, and deduces Mike’s two-ply origin from his yellow hair, dark eye and curved nose.
“You’re part Irish and part Jew,” observes the policeman.
“My mother was from Ireland,” answers Mike; “my father was a Spanish Jew from Salamanca. I think that’s what they call it, although I was not old enough when he died to remember much about him.”
“Irish crossed on Jew!” comments the officer, still in a mood of thoughtful admiration72. “It’s the best prize-ring strain in the world!” The officer is in his dim way a patron of sport.
Mike thanks the other; for, while by no means clearly understanding, he feels that a compliment is meant. Then Mike goes homeward to Mollie and little Davy.
It is the twenty-third of December—two days before Christmas—when we are first made friends of Mike Menares. About a month before, the little family of three fell upon bad days. Mike was dismissed by the great grocers, and the six dollars weekly from that quarter came to an end. Mike’s delivery wagon was run down and crushed by a car; and, while Mike was not to blame, the grocers have no time to discover a justice, and Mike was told to go.
For mere74 food and light and fire, Mike’s other six Saturday dollars from Professor O’Punch would with economy provide. But there is the rent on New Year’s day! Also, and more near, is Christmas, with not a penny to spare. It must perforce be a bare festival, this Christmas. It will be a blow to little Davy of the crutch, who has talked only of Christmas for two months past and gone.
Mike, as has been intimated, is dull and slow of brain. He has just enough of education to be able to read and write. He owns no bad habits—no habits at all, in fact; and the one great passion of his simple heart is love without a limit for Mollie and little Davy. He lives for them; the least of their desires is the great concern of Mike’s life. Therefore, when his income shrinks from twelve dollars to six, it creeps up on him and chills him as a loss to Mollie and Davy. And peculiarly does this sorrowful business of a ruined Christmas for Davy prey75 on poor Mike.
“You and I won’t mind,” says housewife Mollie, looking up in Mike’s face with the sage76 dignity of her eleven years, “because we’re old enough to understand; but I feel bad about little Davy. It’s the first real awful Christmas we’ve ever had.”
Mollie is as bright and wise as Mike is dull. Seven years her senior, still Mike has grown to believe in and rely altogether on Mollie as a guide. He takes her commands without question, and does her will like a slave. To Mollie goes every one of Mike’s dollars; it is Mollie who disposes of them, while Mike never gives them a thought. They have been devoted77 to the one purpose of Mike’s labors; they have gone to Mollie and little Davy of the crutch; why, then, should Mike pursue them further?
Following housewife Mollie’s regrets over a sad Christmas that was not because of their poverty to be a Christmas, Mike sits solemnly by the window looking out on the gathering78 gloom and hurrying holiday crowds of Pitt Street. The folk are all poor; yet each seems able to do a bit for Christmas. As they hurry by, with small bundles and parcels, and now and then a basket from which protrude79 mayhap a turkey’s legs or other symptom of the victory of Christmas, Mike, in the midst of his sluggish80 amiabilities, discovers a sense of pain—a darkish thought of trouble.
And as if grief were to sharpen his wits, Mike has for almost a first and last time an original idea. It is the thought natural enough, when one reflects on Mike’s engagements, evening in and evening out, with Professor O’Punch.
0115
That day Mike, in passing through the Bowery, read the two hundred dollars offer of the selfconfident Terror. At that time Mike felt nothing save wonder that so great a fortune might be the reward of so small an effort. But it did not occur to him that he should try a tilt2 with the Terror. In his present stress, however, and with the woe81 upon him of a bad Christmas to dawn for little Davy, the notion marches slowly into Mike’s intelligence. And it seems simple enough, too, now Mike has thought of it; and with nothing further of pro4 or con14, he prepares himself for the enterprise.
For causes not clear to himself he says nothing to housewife Mollie of his plans. But he alarms that little lady of the establishment’s few sparse82 pots and kettles by declining to eat his supper. Mollie fears Mike is ill. The latter, knowing by experience just as any animal might, that with twelve minutes of violent exercise before him, he is better without, while denying the imputation83 of illness, sticks to his supperless resolve.
Then Mike goes into the rear room and dons blue tights, blue sleeveless shirt, canvas trunks, and light shoes; his working costume. Over these he draws trousers and a blue sweater; on top of all a heavy double-breasted jacket. Thrusting his feet, light shoes and all, into heavy snow-proof overshoes, and pulling on a bicycle cap, Mike is arrayed for the street. Mollie knows of these several preparations, the ring costume under the street clothes, but thinks naught84 of it, such being Mike’s nightly custom as he departs for the academy of Professor O’Punch. At the last moment, Mike kisses both Mollie and little Davy; and then, with a sudden original enthusiasm, he says:
“I’ve been thinkin’, Mollie; mebby I can get some money. Mebby we’ll see a good Christmas, after all.”
Mollie is dazed by the notion of Mike thinking; but she looks in his face, with its honest eyes full of love for her and Davy, and as beautiful as a god’s and as unsophisticated, and in spite of herself a hope begins to live and lift up its head. Possibly Mike may get money; and Christmas, and the rent, and many another matter then pinching the baby housekeeper and of which she has made no mention to Mike, will be met and considered.
“It’ll be nice if you should get money, Mike,” is all Mollie trusts herself to say, as she returns Mike’s good-bye kiss.
When Mike gets into Pitt Street he moves slowly. There’s the crowd, for one thing. Then, too, it’s over early for his contest with the Terror. Mike prefers to arrive at the theatre just in time to strip and make the required application for those two hundred dollars. It may appear strange, but it never once occurs to Mike that he will not last the demanded four rounds. But it seems such a weighty sum! Mike doubts if the offer be earnest; hesitates with the fear that the management will refuse to give him the money at the end.
“But surely,” decides Mike, “they will feel as though they ought to give me something. I lose a dollar by not going to Professor O’Punch’s; they must take account of that.”
Mike loiters along with much inborn85 ease of heart. Occasionally he pauses to gaze into one of the cheap shop windows, ablaze86 and garish87 of the season’s wares88. There is no wind; the air has no point; but it is snowing softly, persistently89, flakes90 of a mighty size and softness.
Ten minutes before he arrives at that theatre which has been the scene of the Terror’s triumphs, Mike enters a bakery whereof the proprietor92, a German, is known to him. Mike has no money but he feels no confusion for that.
“John,” says Mike to the German; “I’ve got to spar a little to-night and I want a big plate of soup.”
“Sure!” says John, leading the way to a rear room which thrives greasily93 as a kind of restaurant. “And here, Mike,” goes on John, as the soup arrives, “I’ll put a big drink of sherry in it. You will feel good because of it, and the sherry and the hot soup will make you quick and strong already.”
At the finish, Mike, with an eye of bland94 innocence—for he is certain the theatre will give him something, even if it withhold95 the full two hundred—tells John he will pay for the soup within the hour, when he returns.
“That’s all right, Mike,” cries the good-natured baker91, “any time will do.”
“This w’y, me cove73,” observes a person with a cockney accent, as the sharp gamin delivers Mike, together with the message to the Terror, at the stage door; “this w’y; ’ere’s a dressin’ room for you to shift your togs.”
Later, when Mike’s outer husks are off and he stands arrayed for the ring, this person, who is old and gray and wears a scarred and battered96 visage, looks Mike over in approval:
“You seems an amazin’ bit of stuff, lad,” says this worthy97 man; “the build of Tom Sayres at his best, but’eavier. I ’opes you’ll do this Mick, but I’m afeared on it. You looks too pretty; an’ you ain’t got a fightin’ face. How ’eavy be you, lad?”
“One hundred and eighty-one,” replies Mike, smiling on the Englishman with his boy’s eyes.
“Can you spar a bit?” asks the other.
“Why, of course I can!” and Mike’s tones exhibit surprise.
“Well, laddy,” says the other; “don’t let this Dublin bloke rattle98 you. ’E’s a great blow’ard, I takes it, an’ will quit if he runs ag’in two or three stiff ’uns. A score of years ago, I’d a-give ’im a stone an’ done for ’im myself. I’m to be in your corner, laddy, an’ I trusts you’ll not disgrace me.”
“Who are you?” asks Mike.
“Oh, me?” says the other; “I works for the theayter, laddy, an’, bein’ as ’ow I’m used to fightin’, I goes on to ’eel an’ ’andle the amatoors as goes arter the Terror. It’s all square, laddy; I’ll be be’ind you; an’ I’ll ’elp you to win those pennies if I sees a w’y.”
“I have also the honor,” shouts the loud master of ceremonies, “to introduce to you Mike Men-ares, who will contend with the Dublin Terror. Should he stay four rounds, Marquis of Queens-berry rules, the management forfeits99 two hundred dollars to the said Menares.”
“What a model for my Jason,” says a thin shaving of a man who stands as a spectator in the wings. He is an artist of note, and speaks to a friend at his elbow. “What a model for my Jason! I will give him five dollars an hour for three hours a day. What’s his name? Mike what?” The battle is about to commence; the friend, tongue-tied of interest, makes no reply.
The Dublin Terror is a rugged100, powerful ruffian, with lumpy shoulders, thick short neck, and a shock gorilla101 head. His little gray eyes are lighted fiercely. His expression is as savagely103 bitter as Mike’s is gentle. The creature, a fighter by nature, was born meaning harm to other men.
There is a roped square, about eighteen feet each way, on the stage, in which the gladiators will box. The floor is canvas made safe with rosin. The master of cermonies, himself a pugilist of celebration, will act as referee104. The old battered man of White Chapel105 is in Mike’s corner.
Another gentleman, with face similarly marred106, but with Seven Dials as his nesting place, is posted opposite to befriend the Terror. There is much buzz in the audience—a rude gathering, it is—and a deal of sympathetic admiration and not a ray of hope for Mike in the eyes of those present.
The Terror is replete107 of a riotous108 confidence and savage102 to begin. For two nights, such is the awe109 of him engendered110 among local bruisers, no one has presented himself for a meeting. This has made the Terror hungry for a battle; he feels like a bear unfed. As he stands over from Mike awaiting the call of “Time,” he looks formidable and forbidding, with his knotted arms and mighty hands.
Mike lounges in his place, the perfection of the athlete and picture of grace with power. His face, full of vacant amiability111, shows pleased and interested as he looks out on the crowded, rampant112 house. Mike has rather the air of a spectator than a principal. The crowd does not shake him; he is not disturbed by the situation. In a fashion, he has been through the same thing every night, save Sunday, for three years. It comes commonplace enough to Mike.
In a blurred113 way Mike resents the blood-eagerness which glows in the eyes of his enemy; but he knows no fear. It serves to remind him, however, that no restraints are laid upon him in favor of the brute114 across the ring, and that he is at liberty to hit with what lust115 he will.
“Time!” suddenly calls the referee.
Those who entertained a forbode of trouble ahead for Mike are agreeably surprised. With the word “Time!” Mike springs into tremendous life like a panther aroused. His dark eyes glow and gleam in a manner to daunt116.
The Terror, a gallant117 headlong ruffian, throws himself upon Mike like a tornado118. For full two minutes his blows fall like a storm. It does not seem of things possible that man could last through such a tempest. But Mike lasts; more than that, every blow of the Terror is stopped or avoided.
It runs off like a miracle to the onlookers119, most of whom know somewhat of self-defensive arts. That Mike makes no reprisals120, essays no counterhits, does not surprise. A cautious wisdom would teach him to feel out and learn his man. Moreover, Mike is not there to attack; his mere mission is to stay four rounds.
While spectators, with approving comment on Mike’s skill and quickness, are reminding one another that Mike’s business is “simply to stay,” Mike himself is coming to a different thought. He has grown disgusted rather than enraged121 by the attacks of the Terror. His thrice-trained eye notes each detail of what moves as a whirlwind to folk looking on; his arm and foot provide automatically for his defense122 and without direct effort of the brain. This leaves Mike’s mind, dull as it is, with nothing to engage itself about save a contemplation of the Terror. In sluggish sort Mike begins to hold a vast dislike for that furious person.
As this dislike commences to fire incipiently123, he recalls the picture of Mollie and little Davy of the crutch. Mike remembers that it is after ten o’clock, and his two treasures must be deep in sleep. Then he considers of Christmas, now but a day away; and of the money so necessary to the full pleasure of his sleeping Mollie and little Davy.
As those home-visions come to Mike, and his antipathy124 to the Terror mounting to its height, the grim impulse claims him to attack. Tigerlike he steps back to get his distance; then he springs forward. It is too quickly done for eye to follow. The Terror’s guard is opened by a feint; and next like a flash Mike’s left shoots cleanly in. There is a sharp “spank!” as the six-ounce glove finds the Terror’s jaw; that person goes down like an oak that is felled. As he falls, Mike’s right starts with a crash for the heart. But there is no need: Mike stops the full blow midway—a feat28 without a mate in boxing. The Terror lies as one without life.
“W’y didn’t you let ’im ’ave your right like you started, laddy?” screams the old Cockney, as Mike walks towards his corner.
Mike laughs in his way of gentle, soft goodnature, and points where the Terror, white and senseless, bleeds thinly at nose and ear.
“The left did it,” Mike replies.
Out of his eyes the hot light is already dying. He takes a deep, deep breath, that arches his great breast and makes the muscles clutch and climb like serpents; he stretches himself by extending his arms and standing high on his toes. Meanwhile he beams pleasantly on his grizzled adherent125.
“It wasn’t much,” says Mike.
“You be the coolest cove, laddy!” retorts the other in a rapt whisper. Then he towels deftly126 at the sweat on Mike’s forehead.
The decision has been given in Mike’s favor. And to his delight, without argument or hesitation127, the loud young man of the vociferous128 garb129 comes behind the scenes and endows him with two hundred dollars.
“Say,” observes the loud young man, admiringly, “you ain’t no wonder, I don’t t’ink!”
“But how did you come to do it, Mike?” asks the good-natured baker, as Mike lingers over a midnight porterhouse at the latter’s restaurant.
“I had to, John,” says Mike, turning his innocent face on the other; “I had to win Christmas money for Mollie and little Davy.”
“And what,” said the Sour Gentleman, “became of this Mike Menares?”
“I should suppose,” broke in the Red Nosed Gentleman, who had followed the Jolly Doctor’s narrative130 with relish131, “I should suppose now he posed for the little sculptor’s Jason.”
“It is my belief he did,” observed the Jolly Doctor, with a twinkle, “and in the end he became full partner of the bruiser, O’Punch, and shared the profits of the gymnasium instead of taking a dollar a night for his labors. His sister grew up and married, which, when one reflects on the experience of her mother, shows she owned no little of her brother’s courage.”
“Your story,” remarked the Red Nosed Gentleman to the Jolly Doctor, “and the terrific blow which this Menares dealt the Dublin Terror brings to mv mind a blow my father once struck.” This was a cue to the others and one quickly seized on; the Red Nosed Gentleman was urged to give the story of that paternal132 blow. First seeing to it that the stock of burgundy at his elbow was ample, and freighting his own and the Jolly Doctor’s glasses to the brim, the Red Nosed Gentleman coughed, cleared his throat, and then gave us the tale of That Stolen Ace6 of Hearts.
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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boxers
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| n.拳击短裤；（尤指职业）拳击手( boxer的名词复数 )；拳师狗 | |
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boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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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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proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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20
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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21
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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22
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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23
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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24
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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26
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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27
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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28
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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29
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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30
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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31
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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32
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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33
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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34
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
hawkish
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| adj. 鹰派的, 强硬派的 | |
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36
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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37
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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38
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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39
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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40
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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41
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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42
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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43
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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44
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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45
bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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46
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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47
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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48
novices
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| n.新手( novice的名词复数 )；初学修士（或修女）；（修会等的）初学生；尚未赢过大赛的赛马 | |
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49
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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50
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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51
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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52
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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53
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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54
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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55
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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56
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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57
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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58
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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59
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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60
poising
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| 使平衡( poise的现在分词 )； 保持（某种姿势）； 抓紧； 使稳定 | |
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61
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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62
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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63
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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64
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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65
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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67
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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68
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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69
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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70
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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71
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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72
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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73
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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76
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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77
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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78
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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79
protrude
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| v.使突出，伸出，突出 | |
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80
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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81
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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82
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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83
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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84
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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85
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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86
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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87
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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88
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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89
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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90
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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91
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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92
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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93
greasily
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| adv.多脂，油腻，滑溜地 | |
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94
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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95
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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96
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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97
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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98
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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99
forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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100
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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101
gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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102
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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103
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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104
referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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105
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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106
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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107
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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108
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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109
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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110
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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112
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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113
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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114
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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115
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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116
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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117
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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118
tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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119
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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120
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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121
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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122
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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123
incipiently
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| adv.起初地，早期地 | |
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124
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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125
adherent
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| n.信徒，追随者，拥护者 | |
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126
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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127
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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128
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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129
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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130
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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131
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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132
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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