In the meantime, a wordy war was occurring in Walter Merritt Emory’s office.
“The man’s yelling his head off,” Doctor Masters was contending. “The police had to rap him with their clubs in the ambulance. He was violent. He wanted his dog. It can’t be done. It’s too raw. You can’t steal his dog this way. He’ll make a howl in the papers.”
“Huh!” quoth Walter Merritt Emory. “I’d like to see a reporter with backbone6 enough to go within talking distance of a leper in the pest-house. And I’d like to see the editor who wouldn’t send a pest-house letter (granting it’d been smuggled7 past the guards) out to be burned the very second he became aware of its source. Don’t you worry, Doc. There won’t be any noise in the papers.”
“But leprosy! Public health! The dog has been exposed to his master. The dog itself is a peripatetic8 source of infection.”
“Contagion is the better and more technical word, Doc.,” Walter Merritt Emory soothed9 with the sting of superior knowledge.
“Contagion, then,” Doctor Masters took him up. “The public must be considered. It must not run the risk of being infected—”
“Call it what you will. The public—”
“Poppycock,” said Walter Merritt Emory. “What you don’t know about leprosy, and what the rest of the board of health doesn’t know about leprosy, would fill more books than have been compiled by the men who have expertly studied the disease. The one thing they have eternally tried, and are eternally trying, is to inoculate11 one animal outside man with the leprosy that is peculiar12 to man. Horses, rabbits, rats, donkeys, monkeys, mice, and dogs—heavens, they have tried it on them all, tens of thousands of times and a hundred thousand times ten thousand times, and never a successful inoculation13! They have never succeeded in inoculating14 it on one man from another. Here—let me show you.”
And from his shelves Waiter Merritt Emory began pulling down his authorities.
“Amazing . . . most interesting . . . ” Doctor Masters continued to emit from time to time as he followed the expert guidance of the other through the books. “I never dreamed . . . the amount of work they have done is astounding15 . . . ”
“But,” he said in conclusion, “there is no convincing a layman16 of the matter contained on your shelves. Nor can I so convince my public. Nor will I try to. Besides, the man is consigned17 to the living death of life-long imprisonment18 in the pest-house. You know the beastly hole it is. He loves the dog. He’s mad over it. Let him have it. I tell you it’s rotten unfair and cruel, and I won’t stand for it.”
“Yes, you will,” Walter Merritt Emory assured him coolly. “And I’ll tell you why.”
He told him. He said things that no doctor should say to another, but which a politician may well say, and has often said, to another politician—things which cannot bear repeating, if, for no other reason, because they are too humiliating and too little conducive19 to pride for the average American citizen to know; things of the inside, secret governments of imperial municipalities which the average American citizen, voting free as a king at the polls, fondly thinks he manages; things which are, on rare occasion, partly unburied and promptly20 reburied in the tomes of reports of Lexow Committees and Federal Commissions.
And Walter Merritt Emory won his desire of Michael against Doctor Masters; had his wife dine with him at Jules’ that evening and took her to see Margaret Anglin in celebration of the victory; returned home at one in the morning, in his pyjamas21 went out to take a last look at Michael, and found no Michael.
The pest-house of San Francisco, as is naturally the case with pest-houses in all American cities, was situated22 on the bleakest23, remotest, forlornest, cheapest space of land owned by the city. Poorly protected from the Pacific Ocean, chill winds and dense24 fog-banks whistled and swirled25 sadly across the sand-dunes. Picnicking parties never came there, nor did small boys hunting birds’ nests or playing at being wild Indians. The only class of frequenters was the suicides, who, sad of life, sought the saddest landscape as a fitting scene in which to end. And, because they so ended, they never repeated their visits.
The outlook from the windows was not inspiriting. A quarter of a mile in either direction, looking out along the shallow canyon26 of the sand-hills, Dag Daughtry could see the sentry-boxes of the guards, themselves armed and more prone27 to kill than to lay hands on any escaping pest-man, much less persuavively discuss with him the advisability of his return to the prison house.
On the opposing sides of the prospect28 from the windows of the four walls of the pest-house were trees. Eucalyptus29 they were, but not the royal monarchs30 that their brothers are in native habitats. Poorly planted, by politics, illy attended, by politics, decimated and many times repeatedly decimated by the hostile forces of their environment, a straggling corporal’s guard of survivors31, they thrust their branches, twisted and distorted, as if writhing32 in agony, into the air. Scrub of growth they were, expending33 the major portion of their meagre nourishment34 in their roots that crawled seaward through the insufficient35 sand for anchorage against the prevailing36 gales37.
Not even so far as the sentry-boxes were Daughtry and Kwaque permitted to stroll. A hundred yards inside was the dead-line. Here, the guards came hastily to deposit food-supplies, medicines, and written doctors’ instructions, retreating as hastily as they came. Here, also, was a blackboard upon which Daughtry was instructed to chalk up his needs and requests in letters of such size that they could be read from a distance. And on this board, for many days, he wrote, not demands for beer, although the six-quart daily custom had been broken sharply off, but demands like:
WHERE IS MY DOG?
HE IS AN IRISH TERRIER.
HE IS ROUGH-COATED.
HIS NAME IS KILLENY BOY.
I WANT MY DOG.
I WANT TO TALK TO DOC. EMORY.
TELL DOC. EMORY TO WRITE TO ME ABOUT MY DOG.
One day, Dag Daughtry wrote:
IF I DON’T GET MY DOG I WILL KILL DOC. EMORY.
Whereupon the newspapers informed the public that the sad case of the two lepers at the pest-house had become tragic39, because the white one had gone insane. Public-spirited citizens wrote to the papers, declaiming against the maintenance of such a danger to the community, and demanding that the United States government build a national leprosarium on some remote island or isolated40 mountain peak. But this tiny ripple41 of interest faded out in seventy-two hours, and the reporter-cubs proceeded variously to interest the public in the Alaskan husky dog that was half a bear, in the question whether or not Crispi Angelotti was guilty of having cut the carcass of Giuseppe Bartholdi into small portions and thrown it into the bay in a grain-sack off Fisherman’s Wharf42, and in the overt43 designs of Japan upon Hawaii, the Philippines, and the Pacific Coast of North America.
And, outside of imprisonment, nothing happened of interest to Dag Daughtry and Kwaque at the pest-house until one night in the late fall. A gale38 was not merely brewing44. It was coming on to blow. Because, in a basket of fruit, stated to have been sent by the young ladies of Miss Foote’s Seminary, Daughtry had read a note artfully concealed45 in the heart of an apple, telling him on the forthcoming Friday night to keep a light burning in his window. Daughtry received a visitor at five in the morning.
It was Charles Stough Greenleaf, the Ancient Mariner46 himself. Having wallowed for two hours through the deep sand of the eucalyptus forest, he fell exhausted47 against the penthouse door. When Daughtry opened it, the ancient one blew in upon him along with a gusty48 wet splatter of the freshening gale. Daughtry caught him first and supported him toward a chair. But, remembering his own affliction, he released the old man so abruptly50 as to drop him violently into the chair.
“My word, sir,” said Daughtry. “You must ’a’ ben havin’ a time of it.—Here, you fella Kwaque, this fella wringin’ wet. You fella take ’m off shoe stop along him.”
But before Kwaque, immediately kneeling, could touch hand to the shoelaces, Daughtry, remembering that Kwaque was likewise unclean, had thrust him away.
“My word, I don’t know what to do,” Daughtry murmured, staring about helplessly as he realised that it was a leper-house, that the very chair in which the old man sat was a leper-chair, that the very floor on which his exhausted feet rested was a leper-floor.
“I’m glad to see you, most exceeding glad,” the Ancient Mariner panted, extending his hand in greeting.
Dag Daughtry avoided it.
“We’re all cleared to sail on the first of the ebb54 at seven this morning. She’s out in the stream now, a tidy bit of a schooner55, the Bethlehem, with good lines and hull56 and large cabin accommodations. She used to be in the Tahiti trade, before the steamers ran her out. Provisions are good. Everything is most excellent. I saw to that. I cannot say I like the captain. I’ve seen his type before. A splendid seaman57, I am certain, but a Bully58 Hayes grown old. A natural born pirate, a very wicked old man indeed. Nor is the backer any better. He is middle-aged59, has a bad record, and is not in any sense of the word a gentleman, but he has plenty of money—made it first in California oil, then grub-staked a prospector60 in British Columbia, cheated him out of his share of the big lode61 he discovered and doubled his own wealth half a dozen times over. A very undesirable62, unlikeable sort of a man. But he believes in luck, and is confident that he’ll make at least fifty millions out of our adventure and cheat me out of my share. He’s as much a pirate as is the captain he’s engaged.”
“Mr. Greenleaf, I congratulate you, sir,” Daughtry said. “And you have touched me, sir, touched me to the heart, coming all the way out here on such a night, and running such risks, just to say good-bye to poor Dag Daughtry, who always meant somewhat well but had bad luck.”
But while he talked so heartily63, Daughtry saw, in a resplendent visioning, all the freedom of a schooner in the great South Seas, and felt his heart sink in realisation that remained for him only the pest-house, the sand-dunes, and the sad eucalyptus trees.
The Ancient Mariner sat stiffly upright.
“Sir, you have hurt me. You have hurt me to the heart.”
“No offence, sir, no offence,” Daughtry stammered64 in apology, although he wondered in what way he could have hurt the old gentleman’s feelings.
“You are my friend, sir,” the other went on, gravely censorious. “I am your friend, sir. And you give me to understand that you think I have come out here to this hell-hole to say good-bye. I came out here to get you, sir, and your nigger, sir. The schooner is waiting for you. All is arranged. You are signed on the articles before the shipping65 commissioner66. Both of you. Signed on yesterday by proxies67 I arranged for myself. One was a Barbadoes nigger. I got him and the white man out of a sailors’ boarding-house on Commercial Street and paid them five dollars each to appear before the Commissioner and sign on.”
“But, my God, Mr. Greenleaf, you don’t seem to grasp it that he and I are lepers.”
Almost with a galvanic spring, the Ancient Mariner was out of the chair and on his feet, the anger of age and of a generous soul in his face as he cried:
“My God, sir, what you don’t seem to grasp is that you are my friend, and that I am your friend.”
“Steward69, Daughtry. Mr. Daughtry, friend, sir, or whatever I may name you, this is no fairy-story of the open boat, the cross-bearings unnamable, and the treasure a fathom70 under the sand. This is real. I have a heart. That, sir”—here he waved his extended hand under Daughtry’s nose—“is my hand. There is only one thing you may do, must do, right now. You must take that hand in your hand, and shake it, with your heart in your hand as mine is in my hand.”
“If you don’t, then I shall not depart from this place. I shall remain here, die here. I know you are a leper. You can’t tell me anything about that. There’s my hand. Are you going to take it? My heart is there in the palm of it, in the pulse in every finger-end of it. If you don’t take it, I warn you I’ll sit right down here in this chair and die. I want you to understand I am a man, sir, a gentleman. I am a friend, a comrade. I am no poltroon72 of the flesh. I live in my heart and in my head, sir—not in this feeble carcass I cursorily73 inhabit. Take that hand. I want to talk with you afterward74.”
Dag Daughtry extended his hand hesitantly, but the Ancient Mariner seized it and pressed it so fiercely with his age-lean fingers as to hurt.
“Now we can talk,” he said. “I have thought the whole matter over. We sail on the Bethlehem. When the wicked man discovers that he can never get a penny of my fabulous75 treasure, we will leave him. He will be glad to be quit of us. We, you and I and your nigger, will go ashore76 in the Marquesas. Lepers roam about free there. There are no regulations. I have seen them. We will be free. The land is a paradise. And you and I will set up housekeeping. A thatched hut—no more is needed. The work is trifling77. The freedom of beach and sea and mountain will be ours. For you there will be sailing, swimming, fishing, hunting. There are mountain goats, wild chickens and wild cattle. Bananas and plantains will ripen78 over our heads—avocados and custard apples, also. The red peppers grow by the door, and there will be fowls79, and the eggs of fowls. Kwaque shall do the cooking. And there will be beer. I have long noted80 your thirst unquenchable. There will be beer, six quarts of it a day, and more, more.
“Quick. We must start now. I am sorry to tell you that I have vainly sought your dog. I have even paid detectives who were robbers. Doctor Emory stole Killeny Boy from you, but within a dozen hours he was stolen from Doctor Emory. I have left no stone unturned. Killeny Boy is gone, as we shall be gone from this detestable hole of a city.
“I have a machine waiting. The driver is paid well. Also, I have promised to kill him if he defaults on me. It bears just a bit north of east over the sandhill on the road that runs along the other side of the funny forest . . . That is right. We will start now. We can discuss afterward. Look! Daylight is beginning to break. The guards must not see us . . . ”
Out into the storm they passed, Kwaque, with a heart wild with gladness, bringing up the rear. At the beginning Daughtry strove to walk aloof81, but in a trice, in the first heavy gust49 that threatened to whisk the frail82 old man away, Dag Daughtry’s hand was grasping the other’s arm, his own weight behind and under, supporting and impelling83 forward and up the hill through the heavy sand.
“Thank you, steward, thank you, my friend,” the Ancient Mariner murmured in the first lull84 between the gusts85.
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收听单词发音
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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7
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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inoculate
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| v.给...接种，给...注射疫苗 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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inoculation
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| n.接芽；预防接种 | |
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inoculating
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的现在分词 ) | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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bleakest
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| 阴冷的( bleak的最高级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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canyon
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| n.峡谷，溪谷 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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eucalyptus
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| n.桉树，桉属植物 | |
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monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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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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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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51
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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prospector
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| n.探矿者 | |
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lode
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| n.矿脉 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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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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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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proxies
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| n.代表权( proxy的名词复数 )；（测算用的）代替物；（对代理人的）委托书；（英国国教教区献给主教等的）巡游费 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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72
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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73
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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74
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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75
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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76
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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77
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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78
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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79
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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81
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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82
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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83
impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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84
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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85
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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