'Wy, wot's up?' asked Bill Rann, when they met, looking doubtfully in his pal5's face. 'You ain't bin6 boozin', 'ave ye?'
Josh repelled7 the question with a snarl8. 'No I ain't,' he said. 'Got the tools?' There was a thickness in his voice, with a wildness in his eye, that might well explain his partner's doubt.
'Yus. Come under the light. I couldn't git no twirls, an' we sha'n't want 'em. 'Ere's a screwdriver9, an' two gimlets, an' a knife for the winderketch, an' a little james, an' a neddy—'
'A neddy!' Josh cut in, scornfully pointing his thumb at the instrument, which some call life-preserver. 'A neddy for Weech! G-r-r-r! I might take a neddy to a man!'
'That's awright,' Bill replied. 'But it 'ud frighten 'im pretty well, wouldn't it? Look 'ere. S'pose we can't find the oof. W'y shouldn't we wake up Mr Weech very quiet an' respeckful, an' ask 'im t' 'elp us? 'E's all alone, an' I'm sure 'e'll be glad to 'blige, w'en 'e sees this 'ere neddy, without waitin' for a tap. W'y, blimy, I b'lieve 'e'd be afraid to sing out any'ow, for fear o' bringin' in the coppers10 to find all the stuff 'e's bought on the crook11! It's all done, once we're inside!'
It was near midnight, and Bill Rann had observed Weech putting up his shutters12 at eleven. So the two Jagos walked slowly along Meakin Street, on the side opposite Weech's, with sharp eyes for the windows.
All was quiet; there was no visible light—none from the skylight over the shop door, none from the window above, none from the garret window above that. They passed on, crossed the road, strolled back, and listened at the door; there was no sound from within. The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, and was joined at the fourth stroke by the loud bell of St Leonards, hard by; and ere the last mild note had sounded from the farthest clock in the awakened14 chorus, Josh Perrott and Bill Rann had taken the next turning, and were pushing their way to the alleys16 behind Weech's.
Foul17 rat-runs, these alleys, not to be traversed by a stranger. Josh and Bill plunged18 into one narrow archway after another, each of which might have been the private passage of a house, and came at last, stealthy and unseen, into the muddy yard.
Weech's back-fence was before them, and black house-backs crowded them round. There were but one or two lights in the windows, and those windows were shut and curtained. The rear of Weech's house was black and silent as the front. They peered over the fence. The yard was pitch-dark, but faint angular tokens here and there told of heaped boxes and lumber19. 'We won't tip 'im the whistle this time,' whispered Bill Rann, with a smothered20 chuckle21. 'Over!'
He bent22 his knee, and Josh straddled from it over the rickety fence with quiet care, and lowered himself gingerly on the other side. 'Clear 'ere,' he whispered. 'Come on.' Since Bill's display of the tools Josh had scarce spoken a word. Bill wondered at his taciturnity, but respected it as a business-like quality in the circumstances.
It was but a matter of four or five yards to the wash-house window, but they bent and felt their way. Josh took up an old lemonade-case as he went, and planted it on the ground below the window, stretching his hand for the knife as he did so. And now he took command and foremost place.
It was an old shoemaker's knife, with too long a handle; for there was a skew-joint in the sash, and the knife would not bend. Presently Bill Rann, below, could see that Josh was cutting away the putty from the pane23, and in five minutes the pane itself was put into his hand. He stooped, and laid it noiselessly on the soft ground.
Josh turned the catch and lifted the sash. There was some noise, but not much, as he pushed the frame up evenly, with a thumb at each side. They waited; but it was quite still, and Josh, sitting on the sill, manœuvred his legs, one at a time, through the narrow opening. Then, turning over, he let himself down, and beckoned24 Bill Rann to follow.
Bill Rann had a small tin box, with an inch of candle on the inside of one end, so that when the wick was lit the contrivance made a simple but an effective lantern, the light whereof shone in front alone, and could be extinguished at a puff25. Now a match was struck, and a quick view taken of the wash-house.
There was not much about; only cracked and greasy26 plates, jars, tins, pots and pans, and in a corner a miscellaneous heap, plainly cheap pilferings, covered with a bit of old carpet. The air was offensive with the characteristic smell of Weech's—the smell of stale pickles27.
'There ain't nothin' to waste time over 'ere,' said Josh, aloud. 'Come on!'
'Shut up, you damn fool!' exclaimed Bill Rann, in a whisper. 'D'jer want to wake 'im?'
'Umph! Why not?' was the reply, still aloud. Bill began to feel that his pal was really drunk. But, silent once more, Josh applied28 himself to the door of the inner room. It was crank and old, worn and battered29 at the edges. Josh forced the wedge end of the jemmy through the jamb, splintering the perished wood of the frame, and, with a push, forced the striking-box of the lock off its screws. There was still a bolt at the top; that at the bottom had lost its catch—but this gave as little trouble as the lock. Bill Rann strained the door open from below, the jemmy entered readily, and in a few seconds the top bolt was in like case with the bottom.
They entered the room behind the shop, and it was innocent and disappointing. A loo table, four horse-hair-covered chairs, a mirror, three coloured wall-texts, two china figures and a cheap walnut31 sideboard—that was all. The slow step of a policeman without stopped, with a push at the shop-door, to test its fastenings, and then went on; and stronger than ever was the smell of stale pickles.
To try the shop would be mere32 waste of time. Weech's pocket was the till, and there could be no other prize. A door at the side of the room, latched33 simply, gave on the stairs. 'Take auf yer boots,' Bill whispered, unlacing his own, and slinging34 them across his shoulder by the tied laces.
But Josh would not, and he said so, with an oath. Bill could not understand him. Could it be drink? Bill wished him a mile away. 'Awright,' he whispered, 'you set down 'ere w'ile I slip upstairs an' take a peep. I bet the stuffs in the garret. Best on'y one goes, quiet.'
Josh sat, and Bill, taking his lantern, crept up the stairs noiselessly, save for one creak. He gained the stair-head, listened a moment, tip-toed along the small landing, and was half-way up the steep and narrow garret-stairs, when he heard a sound, and stopped. Somebody was on the lower flight.
There was a heavy tread, with the kick of a boot against stair or skirting-board; and then came noisy steps along the landing. Josh was coming up in his boots! Bill Rann was at his wits' end. He backed down the garret-stairs, and met Josh at the foot. 'Are ye balmy?' he hissed36 fiercely, catching37 Josh by the collar and pulling him into the turn of the stairs. 'D'ye want another five stretch?'
A loud creak and a soft thump38 sounded from behind the door at the other end of the landing; and then a match was struck. 'Keep back on the stairs,' Bill whispered. ''E's 'eard you.' Josh sat on a stair, perfectly39 still, with his legs drawn40 up out of sight from the door. Bill blew out his light. He would not venture open intimidation41 of Weech now, with Josh half muzzy, lest some burst of lunacy brought in the police.
A soft treading of bare feet, the squeak42 of a door-handle, a light on the landing, and Aaron Weech stood at his open door in his shirt, candle in hand, his hair rumpled43, his head aside, his mouth a little open, his unconscious gaze upward; listening intently. He took a slight step forward. And then Bill Rann's heart turned over and over.
For Josh Perrott sprang from the stair, and, his shoulders humped and his face thrust out, walked deliberately44 across the landing. Weech turned his head quickly; his chin fell on his chest as by jaw-break; there were but dots amid the white of his eyes; his head lay slowly back, as the candle tilted45 and shot its grease on the floor. The door swung wider as his shoulder struck it, and he screamed, like a rabbit that sees a stoat. Then, with a wrench46, he turned, letting drop the candle, and ran shrieking47 to the window, flung it open, and yelled into the black street. ''Elp! 'Elp! P'lice! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder!'
'Run, Josh—run, ye blasted fool!' roared Bill Rann, bounding across the landing, and snatching at his arm.
'Go on—go on! I'm comin'!' Josh answered without turning his head. And Bill took the bottom flight at a jump. The candle flared48 as it lay on the floor, and spread a greasy pool about it.
'Murder! Murder! Mu-r-r—'
Josh had the man by the shoulder, swung him back from the window, gripped his throat, and dragged him across the carpet as he might drag a cat, while Weech's arms waved uselessly, and his feet feebly sought a hold on the floor.
'Now!' cried Josh Perrott, glaring on the writhen face below his own, and raising his case-knife in the manner of a cleaver49, 'sing a hymn50! Sing the hymn as'll do ye most good! You'll cheat me when ye can, an' when ye can't you'll put me five year in stir, eh? Sing a hymn, ye snivellin' nark!'
From the street there came the noise of many hurrying feet and of a scattered51 shouting. Josh Perrott made an offer at slashing52 the slaty53 face, checked his arm, and went on.
'You'll put down somethin' 'an'some at my break, will ye? An' you'll starve my wife an' kids all to bones an' teeth four year! Sing a hymn, ye cur!'
He made another feint at slashing. Men were beating thunderously at the shop door, and there were shrill54 whistles.
'Won't sing yer hymn? There ain't much time! My boy was goin' straight, an' earnin' wages: someone got 'im chucked. A man 'as time to think things out, in stir! Sing, ye son of a cow! Sing! Sing!'
Twice the knife hacked56 the livid face. But the third hack55 was below the chin; and the face fell back.
The bubbling Thing dropped in a heap, and put out the flaring57 candle. Without, the shouts gathered to a roar, and the door shook under heavy blows. 'Open—open the door!' cried a deep voice.
He looked from the open window. There was a scrambling58 crowd, and more people were running in. Windows gaped59, and thrust out noisy heads. The flash of a bull's-eye dazzled him, and he staggered back. 'Perrott! Perrott!' came a shout. He had but glanced out, but he was recognised.
He threw down his knife, and made for the landing, slipping on the wet floor and stumbling against the Heap. There were shouts from behind the house now; they were few, but they were close. He dashed up the narrow stairs, floundered through the back garret, over bags and boxes and heaps of mingled60 commodities, and threw up the sash. Men were stumbling invisibly in the dark yard below. He got upon the sill, swung round by the dormer-frame, and went, hands and knees, along the roof. Yells and loud whistles rose clamant in the air, and his own name was shouted to and fro. Then the blows on the shop-door ceased with a splintering crash, and there was a trampling61 of feet on floor-boards.
The roofs were irregular in shape and height, and his progress was slow. He aimed at reaching the roof of Father Sturt's old club building, still empty. He had had this in mind from the moment he climbed from the garret-window; for in the work of setting the drains in order an iron ventilating pipe had been carried up from the stable-yard to well above the roof. It was a stout62 pipe, close by the wall, to which it was clamped with iron attachments63. Four years had passed since he had seen it, and he trusted to luck to find it still standing64, for it seemed his only chance. Down below people scampered65 and shouted. Crowds had sprung out of the dark night as by magic; and the police—they must have been lying in wait in scores. It seemed a mere matter of seconds since he had scaled the back fence; and now people were tearing about the house behind him, and shouting out of windows to those below. He hoped that the iron pipe might not be gone.
Good—it was there. He peered from the parapet down into the stable-yard, and the place seemed empty. He gripped the pipe with hands and knees, and descended66.
The alley15 had no back way: he must take his chance in Meakin Street. He peeped. At the street end there was a dark obstruction67, set with spots of light: a row of police. That way was shut; he must try the Jago—Luck Row was almost opposite, and no Jago would betray him. The hunters were already on the roofs. Men shouted up to them from the street, and kept pace with them, coming nearer. He took a breath and dashed across, knocking a man over at the corner.
Up Luck Row, into Old Jago Street he ran, past his own home, and across to a black doorway68, just as Father Sturt, roused by the persistent69 din35, opened his window. The passage was empty, and for an instant he paused, breathless. But there were howls without, and the pelting70 of many feet. The man knocked over at the corner had given the alarm, and the hunt was up.
Into the back-yard and over the fence; through another passage into New Jago Street; with a notion to gain the courts by Honey Lane and so away. But he was thinking of the Jago as it had been—he had forgotten the demolishment. As he neared Jago Row the place of it lay suddenly before him—an open waste of eighty yards square, skirted by the straight streets and the yellow barracks, with the Board School standing dark among them. And along the straight streets more men were rushing, and more police. They were new-comers: why not venture over? He rubbed his cheek, for something like a film of gum clung to it. Then he remembered, and peered closely at his hands. Blood, sticking and drying and peeling; blood on hands and face, blood on clothes, without a doubt. To go abroad thus were to court arrest, were he known or not. It must be got off; but how? To go home was to give himself up. The police were there long since—they swarmed71 the Jago through. Some half-dismantled houses stood at hand, and he made for the nearest.
There were cellars under these houses, reached from the back-yards. Many a Jago had been born, had lived, and had died in such a place. A cellar would hide him for an hour, while he groped himself clean as he might. Broken brickwork littered the space that had been the back-yard. Feeling in the dark for the steps, which stood in a little pit, his foot turned on a stone, and he pitched headlong.
The cellar itself was littered with rubbish, and he lay among it a little while, breathless and bruised72. When he tried to rise, he found his ankle useless. It was the old sprain73, got at Mother Gapp's before his lagging, and ever ready to assert itself. He sat among the brickbats to pull off the boot—that was foul and sticky too—and he rubbed the ankle. He had been a fool to think of the cellar: why not any corner among the walls above? He had given way to the mere panic instinct to burrow74, to hide himself in a hole, and he had chosen one wherefrom there was no second way of escape—none at all but by the steps he had fallen in at. Far better to have struck out boldly across the streets by Columbia Market to the canal: who could have seen the smears75 in the darkness? And in the canal he might have washed the lot away, secure from observation, under a bridge. The thing might be possible, even now, if he could stand the pain. But no, the foot was useless when he tried it. He was trapped like a rat. He rubbed and kneaded the ankle diligently76, and managed to draw the boot on. But stand on both legs he could not. He might have crawled up the steps on hands and knees, but what was the use of that? So he sat, and waited.
Knots of men went hurrying by, and he caught snatches of their talk. There had been a murder—a man was murdered in his bed—it was a woman—a man had murdered his wife—there were two murders—three—the tale went every way, but it was always Murder, Murder, Murder. Everybody was saying Murder: till in the passing footsteps, in the vague shouts in the distance, and presently in the mere black about him he heard the word still—Murder, Murder, Murder. He fell to contrasting the whispered fancy with the real screams in that bedroom. He wondered what Bill Rann thought of it all, and what had become of the james and the gimlets. He pictured the crowd in Old Jago Street, pushing into his room, talking about him, telling the news. He wondered if Hannah had been asleep when they came, and what she said when they told her. And more people hurried past the ruined house, all talking Murder, Murder, still Murder.
The foot was horribly painful. Was it swelling77? Yes, he thought it was; he rubbed it again. What would Dicky do? If only Dicky knew where he was! That might help. There was a new burst of shouts in the distance. What was that? Perhaps they had caught Bill Rann; but that was unlikely. They knew nothing of Bill—they had seen but one man. Perhaps they were carrying away the Heap on a shutter13: that would be no nice job, especially down the steep stairs. There had been very little in the wash-house, and nothing in the next room; the garrets were pretty full of odd things, but no doubt the money was in the bedroom. The smell of stale pickles was very strong.
So his thoughts chased one another—eager, trivial, crowded—till his head ached with their splitting haste. To take heed78 for the future, to plan escape, to design expedients—these were merely impossible, sitting there inactive in the dark. He thought of the pipe he had slid down, what it cost, why they put it there, who the man was that he ran against at Luck Row, whether or not he hurt him, what the police would do with the bloaters and cake and bacon at the shop, and—again—of the smell of stale pickles.
Father Sturt was up and dressed, standing guard on the landing outside the Perrotts' door. The stairs were full of Jagos—mostly women—constantly joined by new-comers, all anxious to batter30 the door and belabour the hidden family with noisy sympathy and sedulous79 inquiries80: all, that is, except the oldest Mrs Walsh in the Jago, who, possessed81 by an unshakable conviction that Josh's wife must have 'druv 'im to it,' had come in a shawl and a petticoat to give Hannah a piece of her mind. But all were driven back and sent grumbling82 away, by Father Sturt.
Every passage from the Jago was held by the police, and a search from house to house was begun. With clear consciences the Jagos all could deny any knowledge of Josh Perrott's whereabouts; but a clear conscience was little valued in those parts, and one after another affirmed point blank that the man seen at the window was not Perrott at all, but a stranger who lived a long way off. This, of course, less by way of favouring the fugitive83 than of baffling the police: the Jago's first duty. But the police knew the worth of such talk, and the search went on.
Thus it came to pass that in the grey of the morning a party in New Jago Street, after telling each other that the ruins must be carefully examined, climbed among the rubbish, and were startled by a voice from underground.
'Awright,' cried Josh Perrott in the cellar. 'I'm done; it's a cop. Come an' 'elp me out o' this 'ole.'
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收听单词发音
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1
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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4
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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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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7
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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8
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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screwdriver
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| n.螺丝起子；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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14
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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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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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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latched
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| v.理解( latch的过去式和过去分词 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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intimidation
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| n.恐吓，威胁 | |
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42
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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43
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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45
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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46
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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47
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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cleaver
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| n.切肉刀 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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slaty
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| 石板一样的，石板色的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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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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hacked
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| 生气 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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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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scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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