Banneker's induction1 into journalism2 was unimpressive. They gave him a desk, an outfit3 of writing materials, a mail-box with his name on it, and eventually an assignment. Mr. Mallory presented him to several of the other "cubs5" and two or three of the older and more important reporters. They were all quite amiable6, obviously willing to be helpful, and they impressed the observant neophyte7 with that quiet and solid _esprit de corps_ which is based upon respect for work well performed in a common cause. He apprehended8 that The Ledger9 office was in some sort an institution.
None of his new acquaintances volunteered information as to the mechanism10 of his new job. Apparently11 he was expected to figure that out for himself. By nature reticent12, and trained in an environment which still retained enough of frontier etiquette13 to make a scrupulous14 incuriosity the touchstone of good manners and perhaps the essence of self-preservation, Banneker asked no questions. He sat and waited.
One by one the other reporters were summoned by name to the city desk, and dispatched with a few brief words upon the various items of the news. Presently Banneker found himself alone, in the long files of desks. For an hour he sat there and for a second hour. It seemed a curious way in which to be earning fifteen dollars a week. He wondered whether he was expected to sit tight at his desk. Or had he the freedom of the office? Characteristically choosing the more active assumption, he found his way to the current newspaper files. They were like old friends.
"Mr. Banneker." An office boy was at his elbow. "Mr. Greenough wants you."
Conscious of a quickened pulse, and annoyed at himself because of it, the tyro15 advanced to receive his maiden16 assignment. The epochal event was embodied17 in the form of a small clipping from an evening paper, stating that a six-year-old boy had been fatally burned at a bonfire near the North River. Banneker, Mr. Greenough instructed him mildly, was to make inquiries18 of the police, of the boy's family, of the hospital, and of such witnesses as he could find.
Quick with interest he caught up his hat and hurried out. Death, in the sparsely19 populated country wherefrom he hailed, was a matter of inclusive local importance; he assumed the same of New York. Three intense hours he devoted20 to an item which any police reporter of six months' standing21 would have rounded up in a brace22 of formal inquiries, and hastened back, brimful of details for Mr. Greenough.
"Good! Good!" interpolated that blandly23 approving gentleman from time to time in the course of the narrative24. "Write it, Mr. Banneker! write it."
"How much shall I write?"
"Just what is necessary to tell the news."
Behind the amiable smile which broadened without lighting25 up the sub-Mongol physiognomy of the city editor, Banneker suspected something. As he sat writing page after page, conscientiously26 setting forth27 every germane28 fact, the recollection of that speculative29, estimating smile began to play over the sentences with a dire30 and blighting31 beam. Three fourths of the way through, the writer rose, went to the file-board and ran through a dozen newspapers. He was seeking a ratio, a perspective. He wished to determine how much, in a news sense, the death of the son of an obscure East-Side plasterer was worth. On his return he tore up all that he had written, and substituted a curt32 paragraph, without character or color, which he turned in. He had gauged33 the value of the tragedy accurately34, in the light of his study of news files.
Greenough showed the paragraph (which failed to appear at all in the overcrowded paper of next morning) to Mr. Gordon.
"The new man doesn't start well," he remarked. "Too little imaginative interest."
"Isn't it knowledge rather than lack of interest?" suggested the managing editor.
"It may come to the same thing. If he knows too much to get really interested, he'll be a dull reporter."
"I doubt whether you'll find him dull," smiled Mr. Gordon. "But he may find his job dull. In that case, of course he'd better find another."
Indeed, that was the danger which, for weeks to follow, Banneker skirted. Police news, petty and formal, made up his day's work. Had he sought beneath the surface of it the underlying35 elements, and striven to express these, his matter as it came to the desk, however slight the technical news value might have been, would have afforded the watchful36 copy-readers, trained to that special selectiveness as only The Ledger could train its men, opportunity of judging what potentialities might lurk37 beneath the crudities of the "cub4." But Banneker was not crude. He was careful. His sense of the relative importance of news, acquired by those weeks of intensive analysis before applying for his job, was too just to let him give free play to his pen. What was the use? The "story" wasn't worth the space.
Nevertheless, 3 T 9901, which Banneker was already too cognoscent to employ in his formal newsgathering (the notebook is anathema38 to the metropolitan39 reporter), was filling up with odd bits, which were being transferred, in the weary hours when the new man sat at his desk with nothing to do, to paper in the form of sketches40 for Miss Westlake's trustful and waiting typewriter. Nobody could say that Banneker was not industrious41. Among his fellow reporters he soon acquired the melancholy42 reputation of one who was forever writing "special stuff," none of which ever "landed." It was chiefly because of his industry and reliability43, rather than any fulfillment of the earlier promise of brilliant worth as shown in the Sunday Sphere articles, that he got his first raise to twenty dollars. It surprised rather than gratified him.
He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the kind of man with whom it is easy to talk straight talk.
"What's the matter with me?" asked Banneker.
Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo44 upon his fleshy knuckles45 with the letter-opener. "Nothing. Aren't you satisfied?"
"No. Are you?"
"You've had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been worth it, you wouldn't have had it."
"Am I doing what you expected of me?"
"Not exactly. But you're developing into a sure, reliable reporter."
"A routine man," commented Banneker.
"After all, the routine man is the backbone47 of the office." Mr. Gordon executed a fantasia on his thumb. "Would you care to try a desk job?" he asked, peering at Banneker over his glasses.
"I'd rather run a trolley48 car. There's more life in it."
"Do you _see_ life, in your work, Mr. Banneker?"
"See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it's going to flatten49 me out like a steam-roller."
"Then why not write it?"
"It isn't news: not what I see."
"Perhaps not. Perhaps it's something else. But if it's there and we can get a gleam of it into the paper, we'll crowd news out to make a place for it. You haven't been reading The Ledger I'm afraid."
"Like a Bible."
"Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt's stuff?"
"It's funny; some of it. But I couldn't do it to save my job."
"Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn something from it, though."
"Burt doesn't like it, himself. He told me it was all formula; that you could always get a laugh out of people about something they'd been taught to consider funny, like a red nose or a smashed hat. He's got a list of Sign Posts on the Road to Humor."
"The cynicism of twenty-eight," smiled the tolerant Mr. Gordon. "Don't let yourself be inoculated50."
"Mr. Gordon," said Banneker doggedly51; "I'm not doing the kind of work I expected to do here."
"You can hardly expect the star jobs until you've made yourself a star man."
Banneker flushed. "I'm not complaining of the way I've been treated. I've had a square enough deal. The trouble is with me. I want to know whether I ought to stick or quit."
"If you quit, what would you do?"
"I haven't a notion," replied the other with an indifference52 which testified to a superb, instinctive53 self-confidence. "Something."
"Do it here. I think you'll come along all right."
"But what's wrong with me?" persisted Banneker.
"Too much restraint. A rare fault. You haven't let yourself out." For a space he drummed and mused54. Suddenly a knuckle46 cracked loudly. Mr. Gordon flinched55 and glared at it, startled as if it had offended him by interrupting a train of thought. "Here!" said he brusquely. "There's a Sewer-Cleaners' Association picnic to-morrow. They're going to put in half their day inspecting the Stimson Tunnel under the North River. Pretty idea; isn't it? Suppose I ask Mr. Greenough to send you out on the story. And I'd like a look at it when you turn it in."
Banneker worked hard on his report of the picnic; hard and self-consciously. Tommy Burt would, he knew, have made a "scream" of it, for tired business men to chuckle56 over on their way downtown. Pursuant to what he believed Mr. Gordon wanted, Banneker strove conscientiously to be funny with these human moles57, who, having twelve hours of freedom for sunshine and air, elected to spend half of it in a hole bigger, deeper, and more oppressive than any to which their noisome58 job called them. The result was five painfully mangled59 sheets which presently went to the floor, torn in strips. After that Banneker reported the picnic as he saw, felt, and smelt60 it. It was a somber61 bit of writing, not without its subtleties62 and shrewd perceptions; quite unsuitable to the columns of The Ledger, in which it failed to appear. But Mr. Gordon read it twice. He advised Banneker not to be discouraged.
Banneker was deeply discouraged. He wanted to resign.
Perhaps he would nave63 resigned, if old Mynderse Verschoyle had not died at eight o'clock on the morning of the day when Banneker was the earliest man to report at the office. A picturesque64 character, old Mynderse, who had lived for forty-five years with his childless wife in the ancient house on West 10th Street, and for the final fifteen years had not addressed so much as a word to her. She had died three months before; and now he had followed, apparently, from what Banneker learned in an interview with the upset and therefore voluble secretary of the dead man, because, having no hatred65 left on which to center his life, he had nothing else to live for. Banneker wrote the story of that hatred, rigid66, ceremonious, cherished like a rare virtue67 until it filled two lives; and he threw about it the atmosphere of the drear and divided old house. At the end, the sound of the laughter of children at play in the street.
The article appeared word for word as he had written it. That noon Tommy Burt, the funny man, drawing down his hundred-plus a week on space, came over and sat on Banneker's desk, and swung his legs and looked at him mournfully and said:
"You've broken through your shell at last."
"Did you like it?" asked Banneker.
"Like it! My God, if I could write like that! But what's the use! Never in the world."
"Oh, that's nonsense," returned Banneker, pleased. "Of course you can. But what's the rest of your 'if'?"
"I wouldn't be wasting my time here. The magazines for me."
"Is that better?"
"Depends on what you're after. For a man who wants to write, it's better, of course."
"Why?"
"Gives him a larger audience. No newspaper story is remembered overnight except by newspaper men. And they don't matter."
"Why don't they matter?" Banneker was surprised again, this time rather disagreeably.
"It's a little world. There isn't much substance to it. Take that Verschoyle stuff of yours; that's literature, that is! But you'll never hear of it again after next week. A few people here will remember it, and it'll help you to your next raise. But after you've got that, and, after that, your lift onto space, where are you?"
The abruptly68 confidential69 approach of Tommy Burt flattered Banneker with the sense that by that one achievement of the Verschoyle story he had attained70 a new status in the office. Later there came out from the inner sanctum where sat the Big Chief, distilling71 venom72 and wit in equal parts for the editorial page, a special word of approval. But this pleased the recipient73 less than the praise of his peers in the city room.
After that first talk, Burt came back to Banneker's desk from time to time, and once took him to dinner at "Katie's," the little German restaurant around the corner. Burt was given over to a restless and inoffensively egoistic pessimism74.
"Look at me. I'm twenty-eight and making a good income. When I was twenty-three, I was making nearly as much. When I'm thirty-eight, where shall I be?"
"Can't you keep on making it?" asked Banneker.
"Doubtful. A fellow goes stale on the kind of stuff I do. And if I do keep on? Five to six thousand is fine now. It won't be so much ten years from now. That's the hell of this game; there's no real chance in it."
"What about the editing jobs?"
"Desk-work? Chain yourself by the leg, with a blue pencil in your hand to butcher better men's stuff? A managing editor, now, I'll grant you. He gets his twenty or twenty-five thousand if he doesn't die of overstrain, first. But there's only a few managing editors."
"There are more editorial writers."
"Hired pens. Dishing up other fellows' policies, whether you believe in 'em or not. No; I'm not of that profession, anyway." He specified75 the profession, a highly ancient and dishonorable one. Mr. Burt, in his gray moods, was neither discriminating76 nor quite just.
Banneker voiced the question which, at some point in his progress, every thoughtful follower77 of journalism must meet and solve as best he can. "When a man goes on a newspaper I suppose he more or less accepts that paper's standards, doesn't he?"
"More or less? To what extent?" countered the expert.
"I haven't figured that out, yet."
"Don't be in a hurry about it," advised the other with a gleam of malice78. "The fellows that do figure it out to the end, and are honest enough about it, usually quit."
"You haven't quit."
"Perhaps I'm not honest enough or perhaps I'm too cowardly," retorted the gloomy Burt.
Banneker smiled. Though the other was nearly two years his senior, he felt immeasurably the elder. There is about the true reporter type an infinitely79 youthful quality; attractive and touching80; the eternal juvenile81, which, being once outgrown82 with its facile and evanescent enthusiasms, leaves the expert declining into the hack83. Beside this prematurely84 weary example of a swift and precarious85 success, Banneker was mature of character and standard. Nevertheless, the seasoned journalist was steeped in knowledge which the tyro craved86.
"What would you do," Banneker asked, "if you were sent out to write a story absolutely opposed to something you believed right; political, for instance?"
"I don't write politics. That's a specialty87."
"Who does?"
"Does he believe in everything The Ledger stands for?"
"Certainly. In office hours. For and in consideration of one hundred and twenty-five dollars weekly, duly and regularly paid."
"Outside of office hours, then."
"Ah; that's different. In Harlem where he lives, the Parson is quite a figure among the reform Democrats89. The Ledger, as you know, is Republican; and anything in the way of reform is its favorite butt90. So Gale spends his working day poking91 fun at his political friends and associates."
"Out West we'd call that kind of fellow a yellow pup."
"Well, don't call the Parson that; not to me," warned the other indignantly. "He's as square a man as you'll find on Park Row. Why, you were just saying, yourself, that a reporter is bound to accept his paper's standards when he takes the job."
"Then I suppose the answer is that a man ought to work only on a newspaper in whose policies he believes."
"Which policies? A newspaper has a hundred different ones about a hundred different things. Here in this office we're dead against the split infinitive92 and the Honest Laboring93 Man. We don't believe he's honest and we've got our grave doubts as to his laboring. Yet one of our editorial writers is an out-and-out Socialist94 and makes fiery95 speeches advising the proletariat to rise and grab the reins96 of government. But he'd rather split his own head than an infinitive."
"Does he write anti-labor editorials?" asked the bewildered Banneker.
"Not as bad as that. He confines himself to European politics and popular scientific matters. But, of course, wherever there is necessity for an expression of opinion, he's anti-socialist in his writing, as he's bound to be."
"Just a moment ago you were talking of hired pens. Now you seem to be defending that sort of thing. I don't understand your point of view."
"Don't you? Neither do I, I guess," admitted the expositor with great candor97. "I can argue it either way and convince myself, so far as the other fellow's work is concerned. But not for my own."
"How do you figure it out for yourself, then?"
"I don't. I dodge98. It's a kind of tacit arrangement between the desk and me. In minor99 matters I go with the paper. That's easy, because I agree with it in most questions of taste and the way of doing things. After all The Ledger _has_ got certain standards of professional conduct and of decent manners; it's a gentleman's paper. The other things, the things where my beliefs conflict with the paper's standards, political or ethical100, don't come my way. You see, I'm a specialist; I do mostly the fluffy101 stuff."
"If that's the way to keep out of embarrassing decisions, I'd like to become a specialist myself."
"You can do it, all right," the other assured him earnestly. "That story of yours shows it. You've got The Ledger touch--no, it's more individual than that. But you've got something that's going to stick out even here. Just the same, there'll come a time when you'll have to face the other issue of your job or your--well, your conscience."
What Tommy Burt did not say in continuation, and had no need to say, since his expressive102 and ingenuous103 face said it for him, was, "And I wonder what you'll do with _that_!"
A far more influential104 friend than Tommy Burt had been wondering, too, and had, not without difficulty, expressed her doubts in writing. Camilla Van Arsdale had written to Banneker:
... I know so little of journalism, but there are things about it that I distrust instinctively105. Do you remember what that wrangler106 from the _Jon Cal_ told Old Bill Speed when Bill wanted to hire him: "I wouldn't take any job that I couldn't look in the eye and tell it to go to hell on five minutes' notice." I have a notion that you've got to take that attitude toward a reporting job. There must be so much that a man cannot do without loss of self-respect. Yet, I can't imagine why I should worry about you as to that. Unless it is that, in a strange environment one gets one's values confused.... Have you had to do any "Society" reporting yet? I hope not. The society reporters of my day were either obsequious107 little flunkeys and parasites108, or women of good connections but no money who capitalized their acquaintanceship to make a poor living, and whom one was sorry for, but would rather not see. Going to places where one is not asked, scavenging for bits of news from butlers and housekeepers109, sniffing110 after scandals--perhaps that is part of the necessary apprenticeship111 of newspaper work. But it's not a proper work for a gentleman. And, in any case, Ban, you are that, by the grace of your ancestral gods.
Little enough did Banneker care for his ancestral gods: but he did greatly care for the maintenance of those standards which seemed to have grown, indigenously112 within him, since he had never consciously formulated113 them. As for reporting, of whatever kind, he deemed Miss Van Arsdale prejudiced. Furthermore, he had met the society reporter of The Ledger, an elderly, mild, inoffensive man, neat and industrious, and discerned in him no stigma114 of the lickspittle. Nevertheless, he hoped that he would not be assigned to such "society news" as Remington did not cover in his routine. It might, he conceived, lead him into false situations where he could be painfully snubbed. And he had never yet been in a position where any one could snub him without instant reprisals115. In such circumstances he did not know exactly what he would do. However, that bridge could be crossed or refused when he came to it.
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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germane
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| adj.关系密切的，恰当的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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reliability
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| n.可靠性，确实性 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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52
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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57
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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62
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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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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democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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92
infinitive
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| n.不定词；adj.不定词的 | |
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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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98
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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101
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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102
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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103
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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104
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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105
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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106
wrangler
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| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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107
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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108
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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109
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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110
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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111
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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112
indigenously
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| adv.本土 | |
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113
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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114
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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115
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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