I was awakened2 at ten o’clock on the 19th, after a long and delicious sleep, by Davies’s voice outside, talking his unmistakable German. Looking out, in my pyjamas3, I saw him on the quay4 above in conversation with a man in a long mackintosh coat and a gold-laced navy cap. He had a close-trimmed auburn beard, a keen, handsome face, and an animated5 manner. It was raining in a raw air.
They saw me, and Davies said: “Hullo, Carruthers! Here’s Commander von Brüning from the Blitz—that’s ‘meiner Freund’ Carruthers.” (Davies was deplorably weak in terminations.)
The Commander smiled broadly at me, and I inclined an uncombed head, while, for a moment, the quest was a dream, and I myself felt unutterably squalid and foolish. I ducked down, heard them parting, and Davies came aboard.
“We’re to meet him at the inn for a talk at twelve,” he said.
His news was that the Blitz’s steam-cutter had come in on the morning tide, and he had met von Brüning when marketing6 at the inn. Secondly7, the Kormoran had also come in, and was moored8 close by. It was as clear as possible, therefore, that the latter had watched us, and was in touch with the Blitz, and that both had seized the opportunity of our being cooped up in Bensersiel to take further stock of us. What had passed hitherto? Nothing much. Von Brüning had greeted Davies with cordial surprise, and said he had wondered yesterday if it was the Dulcibella that he had seen anchored behind Langeoog. Davies had explained that we had left the Baltic and were on our way home; taking the shelter of the islands.
“Supposing he comes on board and asks to see our log?” I said.
“Pull it out,” said Davies, “It’s rot, this hiding, after all, I say. I rather funk this interview; what are we to say? It’s not in my line.”
We resolved abruptly9 on an important change of plan, replaced the log and charts in the rack as the first logical step. They contained nothing but bearings, courses, and the bare data of navigation. To Davies they were hard-won secrets of vital import, to be lied for, however hard and distasteful lying was. I was cooler as to their value, but in any case the same thing was now in both our minds. There would be great difficulties in the coming interview if we tried to be too clever and conceal10 the fact that we had been exploring. We did not know how much von Brüning knew. When had our surveillance by the Kormoran begun? Apparently11 at Wangeroog, but possibly in the estuaries12, where we had not fired a shot at duck. Perhaps he knew even more—Dollmann’s treachery, Davies’s escape, and our subsequent movements—we could not tell. On the other hand, exploration was known to be a fad13 of Davies’s, and in September he had made no secret of it.
It was safer to be consistent now. After breakfast we determined14 to find out something about the Kormoran, which lay on the mud at the other side of the harbour, and accordingly addressed ourselves to two mighty15 sailors, whose jerseys16 bore the legend “Post”, and who towered conspicuous17 among a row of stolid18 Frisians on the quay, all gazing gravely down at us as at a curious bit of marine19 bric-à-brac. The twins (for such they proved to be) were most benignant giants, and asked us aboard the post-boat galliot for a chat. It was easy to bring the talk naturally round to the point we wished, and we soon gained some most interesting information, delivered in the broadest Frisian, but intelligible20 enough. They called the Kormoran a Memmert boat, or “wreck21-works” boat. It seemed that off the western end of Juist, the island lying west of Norderney, there lay the bones of a French war-vessel, wrecked22 ages ago. She carried bullion23 which has never been recovered, in spite of many efforts. A salvage24 company was trying for it now, and had works on Memmert, an adjacent sandbank. “That is Herr Grimm, the overseer himself,” they said, pointing to the bridge above the sluice-gates. (I call him “Grimm” because it describes him exactly.) A man in a pilot jacket and peaked cap was leaning over the parapet.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked.
They answered that he was often up and down the coast, work on the wreck being impossible in rough weather. They supposed he was bringing cargo25 in his galliot from Wilhelmshaven, all the company’s plant and stores coming from that port. He was a local man from Aurich; an ex-tug26 skipper.
We discussed this information while walking out over the sands to see the channel at low water.
“Did you hear anything about this in September?” I asked.
“Not a word. I didn’t go to Juist. I would have, probably, if I hadn’t met Dollmann.”
What in the world did it mean? How did it affect our plans?
“Look at his boots if we pass him,” was all Davies had to suggest.
The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle27 in it, running north by east, roughly, and edged by a dyke28 of withies for the first quarter of a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the north-east, and we saw that exit was impossible in such a wind.
So back to the village, a paltry29, bleak30 little place. We passed friend Grimm on the bridge; a dark, clean-shaved, saturnine31 man, wearing shoes. Approaching the inn:
“We haven’t settled quite enough, have we?” said Davies. “What about our future plans?”
“Heaven knows, we haven’t,” I said. “But I don’t see how we can. We must see how things go. It’s past twelve, and it won’t do to be late.”
“Well, I leave it to you.”
“All right, I’ll do my best. All you’ve got to do is to be yourself and tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dollmann played you.”
The next scene: von Brüning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffee and Kümmel at a table in a dingy32 inn-parlour overlooking the harbour and the sea, Davies with a full box of matches on the table before him. The Commander gave us a hearty33 welcome, and I am bound to say I liked him at once, as Davies had done; but I feared him, too, for he had honest eyes, but abominably34 clever ones.
I had impressed on Davies to talk and question as freely and naturally as though nothing uncommon35 had happened since he last saw von Brüning on the deck of the Medusa. He must ask about Dollmann—the mutual36 friend—at the outset, and, if questioned about that voyage in his company to the Elbe, must lie like a trooper as to the danger he had been in. This was the one clear and essential necessity, where much was difficult. Davies did his duty with precipitation, and blushed when he put his question, in a way that horrified37 me, till I remembered that his embarrassment38 was due, and would be ascribed, to another cause.
“Herr Dollmann is away still, I think,” said von Brüning. (So Davies had been right at Brunsbüttel.) “Were you thinking of looking him up again?” he added.
“Yes,” said Davies, shortly.
“Well, I’m sure he’s away. But his yacht is back, I believe—and Fräulein Dollmann, I suppose.”
“H’m!” said Davies; “she’s a very fine boat that.”
Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who was miserable39. I saw a chance, and took it mercilessly.
“We can call on Fräulein Dollmann, at least, Davies,” I said, with a meaning smile at von Brüning.
“H’m!” said Davies; “will he be back soon, do you think?”
The Commander had begun to light a cigar, and took his time in answering. “Probably,” he said, after some puffing40, “he’s never away very long. But you’ve seen them later than I have. Didn’t you sail to the Elbe together the day after I saw you last?”
“Oh, part of the way,” said Davies, with great negligence41. “I haven’t seen him since. He got there first; outsailed me.”
“Gave you the slip, in fact?”
“Of course he beat me; I was close-reefed. Besides——”
“Oh, I remember; there was a heavy blow—a devil of a heavy blow. I thought of you that day. How did you manage?”
“Oh, it was a fair wind; it wasn’t far, you see.”
“Grosse Gott! In that.” He nodded towards the window whence the Dulcibella’s taper42 mast could be seen pointing demurely43 heavenwards.
“She’s a splendid sea-boat,” said Davies, indignantly.
“A thousand pardons!” said von Brüning, laughing.
“Don’t shake my faith in her,” I put in. “I’ve got to get to England in her.”
“Heaven forbid; I was only thinking that there must have been some sea round the Scharhorn that day; a tame affair, no doubt, Herr Davies?”
“Scharhorn?” said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in the latter sentence. “Oh, we didn’t go that way. We cut through the sands—by the Telte.”
“The Telte! In a north-west gale44!” The Commander started, ceased to smile, and only stared. (It was genuine surprise; I could swear it. He had heard nothing of this before.)
“Herr Dollmann knew the way,” said Davies, doggedly45. “He kindly46 offered to pilot me through, and I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.” There was an awkward little pause.
“He led you well, it seems?” said von Brüning.
“Yes; there’s a nasty surf there, though, isn’t there? But it saves six miles—and the Scharhorn. Not that I saved distance. I was fool enough to run aground.”
“Ah!” said the other, with interest.
“It didn’t matter, because I was well inside then. Those sands are difficult at high water. We’ve come back that way, you know.”
(“And we run aground every day,” I remarked, with resignation.)
“Is that where the Medusa gave you the slip?” asked von Brüning, still studying Davies with a strange look, which I strove anxiously to analyse.
“She wouldn’t have noticed,” said Davies. “It was very thick and squally—and she had got some way ahead. There was no need for her to stop, anyway. I got off all right; the tide was rising still. But, of course, I anchored there for the night.”
“Where?”
“Inside there, under the Hohenhörn,” said Davies, simply.
“Under the what?”
“The Hohenhörn.”
“Go on—didn’t they wait for you at Cuxhaven?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t go that way.” The Commander looked more and more puzzled.
“Not by the ship canal, I mean. I changed my mind about it, because the next day the wind was easterly. It would have been a dead beat across the sands to Cuxhaven, while it was a fair wind straight out to the Eider River. So I sailed there, and reached the Baltic that way. It was all the same.”
There was another pause.
“Well done, Davies,” I thought. He had told his story well, using no subtlety47. I knew it was exactly how he would have told it to anyone else, if he had not had irrefutable proof of foul48 play.
“Another liqueur?” he said. Then, to me: “Upon my word, your friend amuses me. It’s impossible to make him spin a yarn50. I expect he had a bad time of it.”
“That’s nothing to him,” I said; “he prefers it. He anchored me the other day behind the Hohenhörn in a gale of wind; said it was safer than a harbour, and more sanitary51.”
“I wonder he brought you here last night. It was a fair wind for England; and not very far.”
“There was no pilot to follow, you see.”
“With a charming daughter—no.”
Davies frowned and glared at me. I was merciful and changed the subject.
“Besides,” I said, “we’ve left our anchor and chain out there.” And I made confession52 of my sin.
“Well, as it’s buoyed53, I should advise you to pick it up as soon as you can,” said von Brüning, carelessly; “or someone else will.”
“Yes, by Jove! Carruthers,” said Davies, eagerly, “we must get out on this next tide.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry,” I said, partly from policy, partly because the ease of the shore was on me. To sit on a chair upright is something of a luxury, however good the cause in which you have crouched54 like a monkey over a table at the level of your knees, with a reeking55 oil-stove at your ear.
“They’re honest enough about here, aren’t they?” I added. While the words were on my lips I remembered the midnight visitor at Wangeroog, and guessed that von Brüning was leading up to a test. Grimm (if he was the visitor) would have told him of his narrow escape from detection, and reticence56 on our part would show we suspected something. I could have kicked myself, but it was not too late. I took the bull by the horns, and, before the Commander could answer, added:
“By Jove! Davies, I forgot about that fellow at Wangeroog. The anchor might be stolen, as he says.”
Davies looked blank, but von Brüning had turned to me.
“We never dreamed there would be thieves among these islands,” I said, “but the other night I nearly caught a fellow in the act. He thought the yacht was empty.”
I described the affair in detail, and with what humour I could. Our host was amused, and apologetic for the islanders.
“They’re excellent folk,” he said, “but they’re born with predatory instincts. Their fathers made their living out of wrecks57 on this coast, and the children inherit a weakness for plunder58. When Wangeroog lighthouse was built they petitioned the Government for compensation, in perfect good faith. The coast is well lighted now, and windfalls are rare, but the sight of a stranded59 yacht, with the owners ashore60, would inflame61 the old passion; and, depend upon it, someone has seen that anchor-buoy.”
The word “wrecks” had set me tingling62. Was it another test? Impossible to say; but audacity63 was safer than reserve, and might save trouble in the future.
“Isn’t there the wreck of a treasure-ship somewhere farther west?” I asked. “We heard of it at Wangeroog” (my first inaccuracy). “They said a company was exploiting it.”
“Quite right,” said the Commander, without a sign of embarrassment. “I don’t wonder you heard of it. It’s one of the few things folk have to talk about in these parts. It lies on Juister Riff, a shoal off Juist. [See Map B] She was a French frigate64, the Corinne, bound from Hamburg to Havre in 1811, when Napoleon held Hamburg as tight as Paris. She carried a million and a half in gold bars, and was insured in Hamburg; foundered65 in four fathoms66, broke up, and there lies the treasure.”
“Never been raised?”
“No. The underwriters failed and went bankrupt, and the wreck came into the hands of your English Lloyd’s. It remained their property till ’75, but they never got at the bullion. In fact, for fifty years it was never scratched at, and its very position grew doubtful, for the sand swallowed every stick. The rights passed through various hands, and in ’86 were held by an enterprising Swedish company, which brought modern appliances, dived, dredged, and dug, fished up a lot of timber and bric-à-brac, and then broke. Since then, two Hamburg firms have tackled the job and lost their capital. Scores of lives have been spent over it, all told, and probably a million of money. Still there are the bars, somewhere.”
“And what’s being done now?”
“Well, recently a small local company was formed. It has a depôt at Memmert, and is working with a good deal of perseverance67. An engineer from Bremen was the principal mover, and a few men from Norderney and Emden subscribed68 the capital. By the way, our friend Dollmann is largely interested in it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Davies’s tell-tale face growing troubled with inward questionings.
“We mustn’t get back to him,” I said, laughing. “It’s not fair to my friend. But all this is very interesting. Will they ever get those bars?”
“Ah! that’s the point,” said von Brüning, with a mysterious twinkle. “It’s an undertaking69 of immense difficulty; for the wreck is wholly disintegrated70, and the gold, being the heaviest part of it, has, of course, sunk the deepest. Dredging is useless after a certain point; and the divers71 have to make excavations72 in the sand, and shore them up as best they can. Every gale nullifies half their labour, and weather like this of the last fortnight plays the mischief73 with the work. Only this morning I met the overseer, who happens to be ashore here. He was as black as thunder over prospects74.”
“Well, it’s a romantic speculation76,” I said. “They deserve a return for their money.”
“I hope they’ll get it,” said the Commander. “The fact is, I hold a few shares myself.”
“Oh, I hope I haven’t been asking indiscreet questions?”
“Oh, dear no; all the world knows what I’ve told you. But you’ll understand that one has to be reticent77 as to results in such a case. It’s a big stake, and the title is none too sound. There has been litigation over it. Not that I worry much about my investment; for I shan’t lose much by it at the worst. But it gives one an interest in this abominable78 coast. I go and see how they’re getting on sometimes, when I’m down that way.”
“It is an abominable coast,” I agreed heartily, “though you won’t get Davies to agree.”
“It’s a magnificent place for sailing,” said Davies, looking wistfully out over the storm-speckled grey of the North Sea.
He underwent some more chaff79, and the talk passed to our cruising adventures in the Baltic and the estuaries. Von Brüning cross-examined us with the most charming urbanity and skill. Nothing he asked could cause us the slightest offence; and a responsive frankness was our only possible course. So, date after date, and incident after incident, were elicited80 in the most natural way. As we talked I was astonished to find how little there was that was worth concealing81, and heartily thankful that we had decided82 on candour. My fluency83 gave me the lead, and Davies followed me; but his own personality was really our tower of strength. I realised that as I watched the play of his eager features, and heard him struggle for expression on his favourite hobby; all his pet phrases translated crudely into the most excruciating German. He was convincing, because he was himself.
“Are there many like you in England?” asked von Brüning once.
“Like me? Of course—lots,” said Davies.
“I wish there were more in Germany; they play at yachting over here—on shore half the time, drinking and loafing; paid crews, clean hands, white trousers; laid up in the middle of September.”
“We haven’t seen many yachts about, said Davies, politely.
For my part, I made no pretence84 of being a Davies. Faithful to my lower nature, I vowed85 the Germans were right, and, not without a secret zest86, drew a lurid87 picture of the horrors of crewless cruising, and the drudgery88 that my remorseless skipper inflicted89 on me. It was delightful90 to see Davies wincing91 when I described my first night at Flensburg, for I had my revenge at last, and did not spare him. He bore up gallantly92 under my jesting, but I knew very well by his manner that he had not forgiven me my banter93 about the “charming daughter”.
“You speak German well,” said von Brüning.
“I have lived in Germany,” said I.
“Studying for a profession, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said I, thinking ahead. “Civil Service,” was my prepared answer to the next question, but again (morbidly, perhaps) I saw a pitfall94. That letter from my chief awaiting me at Norderney? My name was known, and we were watched. It might be opened. Lord, how casual we have been!
“May I ask what?”
“The Foreign Office.” It sounded suspicious, but there it was. “Indeed—in the Government service? When do you have to be back?”
That was how the question of our future intentions was raised, prematurely95 by me; for two conflicting theories were clashing in my brain. But the contents of the letter dogged me now, and “when at a loss, tell the truth”, was an axiom I was finding sound. So I answered, “Pretty soon, in about a week. But I’m expecting a letter at Norderney, which may give me an extension. Davies said it was a good address to give,” I added, smiling.
“Naturally,” said von Brüning, dryly; the joke had apparently ceased to amuse him. “But you haven’t much time then, have you?” he added, “unless you leave your skipper in the lurch96. It’s a long way to England, and the season is late for yachts.”
I felt myself being hurried.
“Oh, you don’t understand,” I explained; “he’s in no hurry. He’s a man of leisure; aren’t you, Davies?”
“What?” said Davies.
I translated my cruel question.
“If I have to leave him I shan’t be missed—as an able seaman98, at least. He’ll just potter on down the islands, running aground and kedging-off, and arrive about Christmas.”
“Or take the first fair gale to Dover,” laughed the Commander.
“Or that. So, you see, we’re in no hurry; and we never make plans. And as for a passage to England straight, I’m not such a coward as I was at first, but I draw the line at that.”
“You’re a curious pair of shipmates; what’s your point of view, Herr Davies?”
“I like this coast,” said Davies. “And—we want to shoot some ducks.” He was nervous, and forgot himself. I had already satirised our sporting armament and exploits, and hoped the subject was disposed of. Ducks were pretexts99, and might lead to complications. I particularly wanted a free hand.
“As to wild fowl,” said our friend, “I would like to give you gentlemen some advice. There are plenty to be got, now that autumn weather has set in (you wouldn’t have got a shot in September, Herr Davies; I remember your asking about them when I saw you last). And even now it’s early for amateurs. In hard winter weather a child can pick them up; but they’re wild still, and want crafty100 hunting. You want a local punt, and above all a local man (you could stow him in your fo’c’sle), and to go to work seriously. Now, if you really wish for sport, I could help you. I could get you a trustworthy——”
“Oh, it’s too good of you,” stammered101 Davies, in a more unhappy accent than usual. “We can easily find one for ourselves. A man at Wangeroog offered——”
“Oh, did he?” interrupted von Brüning, laughing. “I’m not surprised. You don’t know the Frieslanders. They’re guileless, as I said, but they cling to their little perquisites102.” (I translated to Davies.) “They’ve been cheated out of wrecks, and they’re all the more sensitive about ducks, which are more lucrative103 than fish. A stranger is a poacher. Your man would have made slight errors as to time and place.”
“You said they were odd in their manner, didn’t you, Davies?” I put in. “Look here, this is very kind of Commander von Brüning; but hadn’t we better be certain of my plans before settling down to shoot? Let’s push on direct to Norderney and get that letter of mine, and then decide. But we shan’t see you again, I suppose, Commander?”
“Why not? I am cruising westwards, and shall probably call at Norderney. Come aboard if you’re there, won’t you? I should like to show you the Blitz.”
“Thanks, very much,” said Davies, uneasily.
“Thanks, very much,” said I, as heartily as I could.
Our party broke up soon after this.
“Well, gentlemen, I must take leave of you,” said our friend. “I have to drive to Esens. I shall be going back to the Blitz on the evening tide, but you’ll be busy then with your own boat.”
It had been a puzzling interview, but the greatest puzzle was still to come. As we went towards the door, von Brüning made a sign to me. We let Davies pass out and remained standing104.
“One word in confidence with you, Herr Carruthers,” he said, speaking low. “You won’t think me officious, I hope. I only speak out of keen regard for your friend. It is about the Dollmanns—you see how the land lies? I wouldn’t encourage him.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but really——”
“It’s only a hint. He’s a splendid young fellow, but if anything—you understand—too honest and simple. I take it you have influence with him, and I should use it.”
“I was not in earnest,” I said. “I have never seen the Dollmanns; I thought they were friends of yours,” I added, looking him straight in the eyes.
“What’s wrong with them?” I said, point-blank.
“Softly! Herr Carruthers. Remember, I speak out of pure friendliness106 to you as strangers, foreigners, and young. You I take to have discretion107, or I should not have said a word. Still, I will add this. We know very little of Herr Dollmann, of his origin, his antecedents. He is half a Swede, I believe, certainly not a Prussian; came to Norderney three years ago, appears to be rich, and has joined in various commercial undertakings108. Little scope about here? Oh, there is more enterprise than you think—development of bathing resorts, you know, speculation in land on these islands. Sharp practice? Oh, no! he’s perfectly109 straight in that way. But he’s a queer fellow, of eccentric habits, and—and, well, as I say, little is known of him. That’s all, just a warning. Come along.”
I saw that to press him further was useless.
“Thanks; I’ll remember,” I said.
“And look here,” he added, as we walked down the passage, “if you take my advice, you’ll omit that visit to the Medusa altogether.” He gave me a steady look, smiling gravely.
“How much do you know, and what do you mean?” were the questions that throbbed110 in my thoughts; but I could not utter them, so I said nothing and felt very young.
Outside we joined Davies, who was knitting his brow over prospects.
“It just comes of going into places like this,” he said to me. “We may be stuck here for days. Too much wind to tow out with the dinghy, and too narrow a channel to beat in.”
Von Brüning was ready with a new proposal.
“Why didn’t I think of it before?” he said. “I’ll tow you out in my launch. Be ready at 6.30; we shall have water enough then. My men will send you a warp111.”
It was impossible to refuse, but a sense of being personally conducted again oppressed me; and the last hope of a bed in the inn vanished. Davies was none too effusive112 either. A tug meant a pilot, and he had had enough of them.
“He objects to towage on principle,” I said.
“Just like him!” laughed the other. “That’s settled, then!” A dogcart was standing before the inn door in readiness for von Brüning. I was curious about Esens and his business there. Esens, he said, was the principal town of the district, four miles inland.
“I have to go there,” he volunteered, “about a poaching case—a Dutchman trawling inside our limits. That’s my work, you know—police duty.”
Had the words a deeper meaning?
“Do you ever catch an Englishman?” I asked, recklessly.
“Oh, very rarely; your countrymen don’t come so far as this—except on pleasure.” He bowed to us each and smiled.
“Not much of that to be got in Bensersiel,” I laughed.
“I’m afraid you’ll have a dull afternoon. Look here. I know you can’t leave your boat altogether, and it’s no use asking Herr Davies; but will you drive into Esens with me and see a Frisian town—for what it’s worth? You’re getting a dismal113 impression of Friesland.”
I excused myself, said I would stop with Davies; we would walk out over the sands and prospect75 for the evening’s sail.
“Well, good-bye then,” he said, “till the evening. Be ready for the warp at 6.30.”
He jumped up, and the cart rattled114 off through the mud, crossed the bridge, and disappeared into the dreary115 hinterland.
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narrative
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awakened
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pyjamas
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quay
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animated
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marketing
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secondly
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abruptly
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conceal
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apparently
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estuaries
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fad
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determined
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mighty
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jerseys
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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bullion
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| n.金条，银条 | |
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salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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29
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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30
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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32
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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33
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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34
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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35
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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36
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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37
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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38
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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40
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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41
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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42
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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43
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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44
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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45
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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46
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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48
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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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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50
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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51
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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52
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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53
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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54
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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56
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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57
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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58
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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60
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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61
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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62
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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63
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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64
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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65
foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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67
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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68
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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69
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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70
disintegrated
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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72
excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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73
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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74
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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75
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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76
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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77
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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78
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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79
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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80
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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82
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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83
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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84
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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85
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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87
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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88
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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89
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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91
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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92
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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93
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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94
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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95
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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96
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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97
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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98
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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99
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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100
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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101
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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103
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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104
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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105
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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107
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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108
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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109
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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110
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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111
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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112
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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113
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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114
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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115
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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