MRS. P. AROUSES US. - GEORGE, THE SLUGGARD1. - THE "WEATHER FORECAST"SWINDLE. - OUR LUGGAGE. - DEPRAVITY OF THE SMALL BOY. - THE PEOPLE GATHERROUND US. - WE DRIVE OFF IN GREAT STYLE, AND ARRIVE AT WATERLOO. -INNOCENCE OF SOUTH WESTERN OFFICIALS CONCERNING SUCH WORLDLY THINGS ASTRAINS. - WE ARE AFLOAT, AFLOAT IN AN OPEN BOAT.
IT was Mrs. Poppets that woke me up next morning.
She said:
"Do you know that it's nearly nine o'clock, sir?""Nine o' what?" I cried, starting up.
"Nine o'clock," she replied, through the keyhole. "I thought you was a-oversleeping yourselves."I woke Harris, and told him. He said:
"I thought you wanted to get up at six?""So I did," I answered; "why didn't you wake me?""How could I wake you, when you didn't wake me?" he retorted. "Now weshan't get on the water till after twelve. I wonder you take the troubleto get up at all.""Um," I replied, "lucky for you that I do. If I hadn't woke you, you'dhave lain there for the whole fortnight."We snarled2 at one another in this strain for the next few minutes, whenwe were interrupted by a defiant3 snore from George.
It reminded us, for the first time since our being called, of hisexistence.
There he lay - the man who had wanted to know what time he should wake us- on his back, with his mouth wide open, and his knees stuck up.
I don't know why it should be, I am sure; but the sight of another manasleep in bed when I am up, maddens me. It seems to me so shocking tosee the precious hours of a man's life - the priceless moments that willnever come back to him again - being wasted in mere4 brutish sleep.
There was George, throwing away in hideous5 sloth6 the inestimable gift oftime; his valuable life, every second of which he would have to accountfor hereafter, passing away from him, unused. He might have been upstuffing himself with eggs and bacon, irritating the dog, or flirtingwith the slavey, instead of sprawling7 there, sunk in soul-cloggingoblivion.
It was a terrible thought. Harris and I appeared to be struck by it atthe same instant. We determined8 to save him, and, in this noble resolve,our own dispute was forgotten. We flew across and slung9 the clothes offhim, and Harris landed him one with a slipper10, and I shouted in his ear,and he awoke.
"Wasermarrer?" he observed, sitting up.
"Get up, you fat-headed chunk11!" roared Harris. "It's quarter to ten.""What!" he shrieked12, jumping out of bed into the bath; "Who the thunderput this thing here?"We told him he must have been a fool not to see the bath.
We finished dressing13, and, when it came to the extras, we remembered thatwe had packed the tooth-brushes and the brush and comb (that tooth-brushof mine will be the death of me, I know), and we had to go downstairs,and fish them out of the bag. And when we had done that George wantedthe shaving tackle. We told him that he would have to go without shavingthat morning, as we weren't going to unpack14 that bag again for him, norfor anyone like him.
He said:
"Don't be absurd. How can I go into the City like this?"It was certainly rather rough on the City, but what cared we for humansuffering? As Harris said, in his common, vulgar way, the City wouldhave to lump it.
We went downstairs to breakfast. Montmorency had invited two other dogsto come and see him off, and they were whiling away the time by fightingon the doorstep. We calmed them with an umbrella, and sat down to chopsand cold beef.
Harris said:
"The great thing is to make a good breakfast," and he started with acouple of chops, saying that he would take these while they were hot, asthe beef could wait.
George got hold of the paper, and read us out the boating fatalities15, andthe weather forecast, which latter prophesied16 "rain, cold, wet to fine"(whatever more than usually ghastly thing in weather that may be),"occasional local thunder-storms, east wind, with general depression overthe Midland Counties (London and Channel). Bar. falling."I do think that, of all the silly, irritating tomfoolishness by which weare plagued, this "weather-forecast" fraud is about the most aggravating17.
It "forecasts" precisely18 what happened yesterday or a the day before, andprecisely the opposite of what is going to happen to-day.
I remember a holiday of mine being completely ruined one late autumn byour paying attention to the weather report of the local newspaper.
"Heavy showers, with thunderstorms, may be expected to-day," it would sayon Monday, and so we would give up our picnic, and stop indoors all day,waiting for the rain. - And people would pass the house, going off inwagonettes and coaches as jolly and merry as could be, the sun shiningout, and not a cloud to be seen.
"Ah!" we said, as we stood looking out at them through the window, "won'tthey come home soaked!"And we chuckled20 to think how wet they were going to get, and came backand stirred the fire, and got our books, and arranged our specimens21 ofseaweed and cockle shells. By twelve o'clock, with the sun pouring intothe room, the heat became quite oppressive, and we wondered when thoseheavy showers and occasional thunderstorms were going to begin.
"Ah! they'll come in the afternoon, you'll find," we said to each other.
"Oh, WON'T those people get wet. What a lark22!"At one o'clock, the landlady23 would come in to ask if we weren't goingout, as it seemed such a lovely day.
"No, no," we replied, with a knowing chuckle19, "not we. WE don't mean toget wet - no, no."And when the afternoon was nearly gone, and still there was no sign ofrain, we tried to cheer ourselves up with the idea that it would comedown all at once, just as the people had started for home, and were outof the reach of any shelter, and that they would thus get more drenchedthan ever. But not a drop ever fell, and it finished a grand day, and alovely night after it.
The next morning we would read that it was going to be a "warm, fine toset-fair day; much heat;" and we would dress ourselves in flimsy things,and go out, and, half-an-hour after we had started, it would commence torain hard, and a bitterly cold wind would spring up, and both would keepon steadily24 for the whole day, and we would come home with colds andrheumatism all over us, and go to bed.
The weather is a thing that is beyond me altogether. I never canunderstand it. The barometer25 is useless: it is as misleading as thenewspaper forecast.
There was one hanging up in a hotel at Oxford27 at which I was staying lastspring, and, when I got there, it was pointing to "set fair." It wassimply pouring with rain outside, and had been all day; and I couldn'tquite make matters out. I tapped the barometer, and it jumped up andpointed to "very dry." The Boots stopped as he was passing, and said heexpected it meant to-morrow. I fancied that maybe it was thinking of theweek before last, but Boots said, No, he thought not.
I tapped it again the next morning, and it went up still higher, and therain came down faster than ever. On Wednesday I went and hit it again,and the pointer went round towards "set fair," "very dry," and "muchheat," until it was stopped by the peg29, and couldn't go any further. Ittried its best, but the instrument was built so that it couldn't prophesyfine weather any harder than it did without breaking itself. Itevidently wanted to go on, and prognosticate drought, and water famine,and sunstroke, and simooms, and such things, but the peg prevented it,and it had to be content with pointing to the mere commonplace "verydry."Meanwhile, the rain came down in a steady torrent30, and the lower part ofthe town was under water, owing to the river having overflowed31.
Boots said it was evident that we were going to have a prolonged spell ofgrand weather SOME TIME, and read out a poem which was printed over thetop of the oracle32, about"Long foretold33, long last;Short notice, soon past."The fine weather never came that summer. I expect that machine must havebeen referring to the following spring.
Then there are those new style of barometers34, the long straight ones. Inever can make head or tail of those. There is one side for 10 a.m.
yesterday, and one side for 10 a.m. to-day; but you can't always getthere as early as ten, you know. It rises or falls for rain and fine,with much or less wind, and one end is "Nly" and the other "Ely" (what'sEly got to do with it?), and if you tap it, it doesn't tell you anything.
And you've got to correct it to sea-level, and reduce it to Fahrenheit,and even then I don't know the answer.
But who wants to be foretold the weather? It is bad enough when itcomes, without our having the misery35 of knowing about it beforehand. Theprophet we like is the old man who, on the particularly gloomy-lookingmorning of some day when we particularly want it to be fine, looks roundthe horizon with a particularly knowing eye, and says:
"Oh no, sir, I think it will clear up all right. It will break all rightenough, sir.""Ah, he knows", we say, as we wish him good-morning, and start off;"wonderful how these old fellows can tell!"And we feel an affection for that man which is not at all lessened36 by thecircumstances of its NOT clearing up, but continuing to rain steadily allday.
"Ah, well," we feel, "he did his best."For the man that prophesies37 us bad weather, on the contrary, we entertainonly bitter and revengeful thoughts.
"Going to clear up, d'ye think?" we shout, cheerily, as we pass.
"Well, no, sir; I'm afraid it's settled down for the day," he replies,shaking his head.
"Stupid old fool!" we mutter, "what's HE know about it?" And, if hisportent proves correct, we come back feeling still more angry againsthim, and with a vague notion that, somehow or other, he has had somethingto do with it.
It was too bright and sunny on this especial morning for George's blood-curdling readings about "Bar. falling," "atmospheric38 disturbance39, passingin an oblique40 line over Southern Europe," and "pressure increasing," tovery much upset us: and so, finding that he could not make us wretched,and was only wasting his time, he sneaked41 the cigarette that I hadcarefully rolled up for myself, and went.
Then Harris and I, having finished up the few things left on the table,carted out our luggage on to the doorstep, and waited for a cab.
There seemed a good deal of luggage, when we put it all together. Therewas the Gladstone and the small hand-bag, and the two hampers42, and alarge roll of rugs, and some four or five overcoats and macintoshes, anda few umbrellas, and then there was a melon by itself in a bag, becauseit was too bulky to go in anywhere, and a couple of pounds of grapes inanother bag, and a Japanese paper umbrella, and a frying pan, which,being too long to pack, we had wrapped round with brown paper.
It did look a lot, and Harris and I began to feel rather ashamed of it,though why we should be, I can't see. No cab came by, but the streetboys did, and got interested in the show, apparently43, and stopped.
Biggs's boy was the first to come round. Biggs is our greengrocer, andhis chief talent lies in securing the services of the most abandoned andunprincipled errand-boys that civilisation44 has as yet produced. Ifanything more than usually villainous in the boy-line crops up in ourneighbourhood, we know that it is Biggs's latest. I was told that, atthe time of the Great Coram Street murder, it was promptly45 concluded byour street that Biggs's boy (for that period) was at the bottom of it,and had he not been able, in reply to the severe cross-examination towhich he was subjected by No. 19, when he called there for orders themorning after the crime (assisted by No. 21, who happened to be on thestep at the time), to prove a complete ALIBI46, it would have gone hardwith him. I didn't know Biggs's boy at that time, but, from what I haveseen of them since, I should not have attached much importance to thatALIBI myself.
Biggs's boy, as I have said, came round the corner. He was evidently ina great hurry when he first dawned upon the vision, but, on catchingsight of Harris and me, and Montmorency, and the things, he eased up andstared. Harris and I frowned at him. This might have wounded a moresensitive nature, but Biggs's boys are not, as a rule, touchy47. He cameto a dead stop, a yard from our step, and, leaning up against therailings, and selecting a straw to chew, fixed48 us with his eye. Heevidently meant to see this thing out.
In another moment, the grocer's boy passed on the opposite side of thestreet. Biggs's boy hailed him:
"Hi! ground floor o' 42's a-moving."The grocer's boy came across, and took up a position on the other side ofthe step. Then the young gentleman from the boot-shop stopped, andjoined Biggs's boy; while the empty-can superintendent49 from "The BluePosts" took up an independent position on the curb50.
"They ain't a-going to starve, are they? " said the gentleman from theboot-shop.
"Ah! you'd want to take a thing or two with YOU," retorted "The BluePosts," "if you was a-going to cross the Atlantic in a small boat.""They ain't a-going to cross the Atlantic," struck in Biggs's boy;"they're a-going to find Stanley."By this time, quite a small crowd had collected, and people were askingeach other what was the matter. One party (the young and giddy portionof the crowd) held that it was a wedding, and pointed28 out Harris as thebridegroom; while the elder and more thoughtful among the populaceinclined to the idea that it was a funeral, and that I was probably thecorpse's brother.
At last, an empty cab turned up (it is a street where, as a rule, andwhen they are not wanted, empty cabs pass at the rate of three a minute,and hang about, and get in your way), and packing ourselves and ourbelongings into it, and shooting out a couple of Montmorency's friends,who had evidently sworn never to forsake51 him, we drove away amidst thecheers of the crowd, Biggs's boy shying a carrot after us for luck.
We got to Waterloo at eleven, and asked where the eleven-five startedfrom. Of course nobody knew; nobody at Waterloo ever does know where atrain is going to start from, or where a train when it does start isgoing to, or anything about it. The porter who took our things thoughtit would go from number two platform, while another porter, with whom hediscussed the question, had heard a rumour52 that it would go from numberone. The station-master, on the other hand, was convinced it would startfrom the local.
To put an end to the matter, we went upstairs, and asked the trafficsuperintendent, and he told us that he had just met a man, who said hehad seen it at number three platform. We went to number three platform,but the authorities there said that they rather thought that train wasthe Southampton express, or else the Windsor loop. But they were sure itwasn't the Kingston train, though why they were sure it wasn't theycouldn't say.
Then our porter said he thought that must be it on the high-levelplatform; said he thought he knew the train. So we went to the high-level platform, and saw the engine-driver, and asked him if he was goingto Kingston. He said he couldn't say for certain of course, but that herather thought he was. Anyhow, if he wasn't the 11.5 for Kingston, hesaid he was pretty confident he was the 9.32 for Virginia Water, or the10 a.m. express for the Isle26 of Wight, or somewhere in that direction,and we should all know when we got there. We slipped half-a-crown intohis hand, and begged him to be the 11.5 for Kingston.
"Nobody will ever know, on this line," we said, "what you are, or whereyou're going. You know the way, you slip off quietly and go toKingston.""Well, I don't know, gents," replied the noble fellow, "but I supposeSOME train's got to go to Kingston; and I'll do it. Gimme the half-crown."Thus we got to Kingston by the London and South-Western Railway.
We learnt, afterwards, that the train we had come by was really theExeter mail, and that they had spent hours at Waterloo, looking for it,and nobody knew what had become of it.
Our boat was waiting for us at Kingston just below bridge, and to it wewended our way, and round it we stored our luggage, and into it westepped.
"Are you all right, sir?" said the man.
"Right it is," we answered; and with Harris at the sculls and I at thetiller-lines, and Montmorency, unhappy and deeply suspicious, in theprow, out we shot on to the waters which, for a fortnight, were to be ourhome.
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sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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fatalities
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| n.恶性事故( fatality的名词复数 )；死亡；致命性；命运 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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barometers
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| 气压计，晴雨表( barometer的名词复数 ) | |
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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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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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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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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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