In a fighting nation Jim’s kraal was known as a fighting one, and the turbulent blood that ran in their veins9 could not settle down into a placid10 stream merely because the Great White Queen had laid her hand upon his people and said, “There shall be peace!” Chaka, the ‘black Napoleon’ whose wars had cost South Africa over a million lives, had died—murdered by his brother Dingaan—full of glory, lord and master wherever his impis could reach. “Dogs whom I fed at my kraal!” he gasped11, as they stabbed him. Dingaan his successor, as cruel as treacherous12, had been crushed by the gallant13 little band of Boers under Potgieter for his fiendish massacre14 of Piet Retief and his little band. Panda the third of the three famous brothers—Panda the peaceful—had come and gone! Ketshwayo, after years of arrogant15 and unquestioned rule, had loosed his straining impis at the people of the Great White Queen. The awful day of ’Sandhl’wana—where the 24th Regiment16 died almost to a man—and the fight on H’lobani Mountain had blooded the impis to madness; but Rorke’s Drift and Kambula had followed those bloody17 victories—each within a few hours—to tell another tale; and at Ulundi the tides met—the black and the white. And the kingdom and might of the house of Chaka were no more.
Jim had fought at ’Sandhl’wana, and could tell of an umfaan sent out to herd18 some cattle within sight of the British camp to draw the troops out raiding while the impis crept round by hill and bush and donga behind them; of the fight made by the red-coats as, taken in detail, they were attacked hand to hand with stabbing assegais, ten and twenty to one; of one man in blue—a sailor—who was the last to die, fighting with his back to a waggon4-wheel against scores before him, and how he fell at last, stabbed in the back through the spokes20 of the wheel by one who had crept up behind.
Jim had fought at Rorke’s Drift! Wild with lust21 of blood, he had gone on with the maddest of the victory-maddened lot to invade Natal22 and eat up the little garrison23 on the way. He could tell how seventy or eighty white men behind a little rampart of biscuit-tins and flour-bags had fought through the long and terrible hours, beating off five thousand of the Zulu best, fresh from a victory without parallel or precedent24; how, from the burning hospital, Sergeant25 Hook, V.C., and others carried sick and wounded through the flames into the laager; how a man in black with a long beard, Father Walsh, moved about with calm face, speaking to some, helping27 others, carrying wounded back and cartridges28 forward—Father Walsh who said “Don’t swear, boys: fire low;” how Lieutenants29 Chard and Bromhead—V.C.s too for that day’s work—led and fought, and guided and heartened their heroic little band until the flour-bags and biscuit-tins stood lower than the pile of dead outside, and the Zulu host was beaten and Natal saved that day.
Jim had seen all that—and Ulundi, the Day of Despair! And he knew the power of the Great White Queen and the way that her people fight. But peace was not for him or his kraal: better any fight than no fight. He rallied to Usibepu in the fight for leadership when his King, Ketshwayo, was gone, and Jim’s kraal had moved—and moved too soon: they were surrounded one night and massacred; and Jim fought his way out, wounded and alone. Without kith or kin6, cattle, king, or country, he fled to the Transvaal—to work for the first time in his life!
Waggon-boys—as the drivers were called—often acquired a certain amount of reputation on the road or in the locality where they worked; but it was, as a rule, only a reputation as good or bad drivers. In Jim’s case it was different. He was a character and had an individual reputation, which was exceptional in a Kaffir. I had better say at once that not even his best friend would claim that that reputation was a good one. He was known as the best driver, the strongest nigger, the hardest fighter, and the worst drinker on the road.
His real name was Makokela, but in accordance with a common Zulu habit, it was usually abbreviated30 to Makokel’! Among a certain number of the white men—of the sort who never can get any name right—he was oddly enough known as McCorkindale. I called him Jim as a rule—Makokel’, when relations were strained. The waggon-boys found it safer to use his proper name. When anything had upset him it was not considered wise to take the liberty of shouting “Jim”: the answer sometimes came in the shape of a hammering.
Many men had employed Jim before he came to me, and all had ‘sacked’ him for fighting, drinking, and the unbearable31 worry he caused. They told me this, and said that he gave more trouble than his work was worth. It may have been true: he certainly was a living test of patience, purpose, and management; but, for something learnt in that way, I am glad now that Jim never ‘got the sack’ from me. Why he did not, is not easy to say; perhaps the circumstances under which he came to me and the hard knocks of an unkind fate pleaded for him. But it was not that alone: there was something in Jim himself—something good and fine, something that shone out from time to time through his black skin and battered32 face as the soul of a real man.
It was in the first season in the Bushveld that we were outspanned one night on the sand-hills overlooking Delagoa Bay among scores of other waggons dotted about in little camps—all loading or waiting for loads to transport to the Transvaal. Delagoa was not a good place to stay in, in those days: liquor was cheap and bad; there was very little in the way of law and order; and every one took care of himself as well as he could. The Kaffir kraals were close about the town, and the natives of the place were as rascally33 a lot of thieves and vagabonds as you could find anywhere. The result was everlasting34 trouble with the waggon-boys and a chronic35 state of war between them and the natives and the banyans or Arab traders of the place. The boys, with pockets full of wages, haggled36 and were cheated in the stores, and by the hawkers, and in the canteens; and they often ended up the night with beer-drinking at the kraals or reprisals37 on their enemies. Every night there were fights and robberies: the natives or Indians would rob and half-kill a waggon-boy; then he in turn would rally his friends, and raid and clear out the kraal or the store. Most of the waggon-boys were Zulus or of Zulu descent, and they were always ready for a fight and would tackle any odds38 when their blood was up.
It was the third night of our stay, and the usual row was on. Shouts and cries, the beating of tomtoms, and shrill39 ear-piercing whistles, came from all sides; and through it all the dull hum of hundreds of human voices, all gabbling together. Near to us there was another camp of four waggons drawn40 up in close order, and as we sat talking and wondering at the strange babel in the beautiful calm moonlight night, one sound was ever recurring41, coming away out of all the rest with something in it that fixed42 our attention. It was the sound of two voices from the next waggons. One voice was a kaffir’s—a great, deep, bull-throated voice; it was not raised—it was monotonously44 steady and low; but it carried far, with the ring and the lingering vibration45 of a big gong.
“Funa ’nyama, Inkos; funa ’nyama!” (“I want meat, Chief; I want meat!”) was what the kaffir’s voice kept repeating at intervals46 of a minute or two with deadly monotony and persistency47.
The white man’s voice grew more impatient, louder, and angrier, with each refusal; but the boy paid no heed48. A few minutes later the same request would be made, supplemented now and then with, “I am hungry, Baas, I can’t sleep. Meat! Meat! Meat!” or, “Porridge and bread are for women and piccaninnies. I am a man: I want meat, Baas, meat.” From the white man it was, “Go to sleep, I tell you!”
“Be quiet, will you?”
“Shut up that row!”
It may have lasted half an hour when one of our party said, “That’s Bob’s old driver, the big Zulu. There’ll be a row to-night; he’s with a foreigner chap from Natal now. New chums are always roughest on the niggers.”
In a flash I remembered Bob Saunderson’s story of the boy who had caught the lion alive, and Bob’s own words, “a real fine nigger, but a terror to drink, and always in trouble. He fairly wore me right out.”
A few minutes later there was a short scuffle, and the boy’s voice could be heard protesting in the same deep low tone: they were tying him up to the waggon-wheel for a flogging. Others were helping the white man, but the boy was not resisting.
At the second thin whistling stroke some one said, “That’s a sjambok he’s using, not a nek-strop!” Sjambok, that will cut a bullock’s hide! At about the eighth there was a wrench50 that made the waggon rattle51, and the deep voice was raised in protest, “Ow, Inkos!”
It made me choke: it was the first I knew of such things, and the horror of it was unbearable; but the man who had spoken before—a good man too, straight and strong, and trusted by black and white—said, “Sonny, you must not interfere52 between a man and his boys here; it’s hard sometimes, but we’d not live a day if they didn’t know who was baas.”
I think we counted eighteen; and then everything seemed going to burst.
The white man looked about at the faces close to him—and stopped. He began slowly to untie53 the outstretched arms, and blustered54 out some threats. But no one said a word!
The noises died down as the night wore on, until the stillness was broken only by the desultory55 barking of a kaffir dog or the crowing of some awakened56 rooster who had mistaken the bright moonlight for the dawn and thought that all the world had overslept itself. But for me there was one other sound for which I listened into the cool of morning with the quivering sensitiveness of a bruised57 nerve. Sometimes it was a long catchy58 sigh, and sometimes it broke into a groan59 just audible, like the faintest rumble60 of most distant surf. Twice in the long night there came the same request to one of the boys near him, uttered in a deep clear unshaken voice and in a tone that was civil but firm, and strangely moving from its quiet indifference61.
“Landela manzi, Umganaam!” (“Bring water, friend!”) was all he said; and each time the request was so quickly answered that I had the guilty feeling of being one in a great conspiracy62 of silence. The hush63 was unreal; the stillness alive with racing64 thoughts; the darkness full of watching eyes.
There is, we believe, in the heart of every being a little germ of justice which men call conscience! If that be so, there must have been in the heart of the white man that night some uneasy movement—the first life-throb of the thought which one who had not yet written has since set down:
By the living God that made you,
The following afternoon I received an ultimatum66. We had just returned from the town when from a group of boys squatting67 round the fire there stood up one big fellow—a stranger—who raised his hand high above his head in Zulu fashion and gave their salute68 in the deep bell-like voice that there was no mistaking, “Inkos! Bayete!”
He stepped forward, looking me all over, and announced with calm and settled conviction, “I have come to work for you!” I said nothing. Then he rapped a chest like a big drum, and nodding his head with a sort of defiant69 confidence added in quaint70 English, “My naam Makokela! Jim Makokel’! Yes! My catchum lion ’live! Makokela, me!”
He had heard that I wanted a driver, had waited for my return, and annexed71 me as his future ‘baas’ without a moment’s doubt or hesitation72.
I looked him over. Big, broad-shouldered, loose-limbed, and as straight as an assegai! A neck and head like a bull’s; a face like a weather-beaten rock, storm-scarred and furrowed73, rugged74 and ugly, but steadfast75, massive and strong! So it looked then, and so it turned out: for good and for evil Jim was strong.
I nodded and said, “You can come.”
Once more he raised his head aloft, and, simply and without a trace of surprise or gratification, said:
“Yes, you are my chief, I will work for you.” In his own mind it had been settled already: it had never been in doubt.
Jim—when sober—was a splendid worker and the most willing of servants, and, drunk or sober, he was always respectful in an independent, upstanding, hearty77 kind of way. His manner was as rough and rugged as his face and character; in his most peaceful moments it was—to one who did not understand him—almost fierce and aggressive; but this was only skin deep; for the childlike simplicity78 of the African native was in him to the full, and rude bursts of Titanic79 laughter came readily—laughter as strong and unrestrained as his bursts of passion.
To the other boys he was what his nature and training had made him—not really a bully80, but masterful and over-riding. He gave his orders with the curtness81 of a drill sergeant and the rude assurance of a savage chief. Walking, he walked his course, giving way for none of them. At the outspan or on the road or footpath82 he shouldered them aside as one walks through standing76 corn, not aggressively but with the superb indifference of right and habit unquestioned. If one, loitering before him, blocked his way unseeing, there was no pause or step aside—just “Suka!” (“Get out”) and a push that looked effortless enough but sent the offender83 staggering; or, if he had his sticks, more likely a smart whack84 on the stern that was still more surprising; and not even the compliment of a glance back from Jim as he stalked on. He was like the old bull in a herd—he walked his course; none molested85 and none disputed; the way opened before him.
When sober Jim spoke19 Zulu; when drunk, he broke into the strangest and most laughable medley86 of kitchen-Kaffir, bad Dutch, and worse English—the idea being, in part to consider our meaner intelligences and in part to show what an accomplished87 linguist88 he was. There was no difficulty in knowing when Jim would go wrong: he broke out whenever he got a chance, whether at a kraal, where he could always quicken the reluctant hospitality of any native, at a wayside canteen, or in a town. Money was fatal—he drank it all out; but want of money was no security, for he was known to every one and seemed to have friends everywhere; and if he had not, he made them on the spot—annexed and overwhelmed them.
From time to time you do meet people like that. The world’s their oyster89, and the gift of a masterful and infinite confidence opens it every time: they walk through life taking of the best as a right, and the world unquestioningly submits.
I had many troubles with Jim, but never on account of white men: drunk or sober, there was never trouble there. It may have been Rorke’s Drift and Ulundi that did it; but whatever it was, the question of black and white was settled in his mind for ever. He was respectful, yet stood upright with the rough dignity of an unvanquished spirit; but on the one great issue he never raised his hand or voice again. His troubles all came from drink, and the exasperation90 was at times almost unbearable—so great, indeed, that on many occasions I heartily91 repented92 ever having taken him on. Warnings were useless, and punishment—well, the shiny new skin that made patterns in lines and stars and crosses on his back for the rest of his life made answer for always upon that point.
The trials and worries were often great indeed. The trouble began as soon as we reached a town, and he had a hundred excuses for going in, and a hundred more for not coming out: he had some one to see, boots to be mended, clothes to buy, or medicine to get—the only illness I ever knew him have was ‘a pain inside,’ and the only medicine wanted—grog!—some one owed him money—a stock excuse, and the idea of Jim, always penniless and always in debt, posing as a creditor93 never failed to raise a laugh, and he would shake his head with a half-fierce half-sad disgust at the general scepticism and his failure to convince me. Then he had relations in every town! Jim, the sole survivor94 of his fighting kraal, produced ‘blulus,’ ‘babas,’ ‘sisteles,’ and even ‘mamas,’ in profusion95, and they died just before we reached the place, as regularly as the office-boy’s aunt dies before Derby Day, and with the same consequence—he had to go to the funeral.
The first precaution was to keep him at the waggons and put the towns and canteens ‘out of bounds’; and the last defence, to banish96 him entirely97 until he came back sober, and meanwhile set other boys to do his work, paying them his wages in cash in his presence when he returned fit for duty.
“Is it as I told you? Is it just?” I would ask when this was done.
“It is just, Inkos,” he would answer with a calm dispassionate simplicity which appealed for forgiveness and confidence with far greater force than any repentance98; and it did so because it was genuine; it was natural and unstudied. There was never a trace of feeling to be detected when these affairs were squared off, but I knew how he hated the treatment, and it helped a little from time to time to keep him right.
The banishing99 of him from the waggons in order that he might go away and have it over was not a device to save myself trouble, and I did it only when it was clear that he could stand the strain no longer. It was simply a choice of evils, and it seemed to me better to let him go, clearly understanding the conditions, than drive him into breaking away with the bad results to him and the bad effects on the others of disobeying orders. It was, as a rule, far indeed from saving me trouble, for after the first bout26 of drinking he almost invariably found his way back to the waggons: the drink always produced a ravenous100 craving101 for meat, and when his money was gone and he had fought his fill and cleared out all opposition102, he would come back to the waggons at any hour of the night, perhaps even two or three times between dark and dawn, to beg for meat. Warnings and orders had no effect whatever; he was unconscious of everything except the overmastering craving for meat. He would come to my waggon and begin that deadly monotonous43 recitation, “Funa ’nyama, Inkos! Wanta meat, Baas!” There was a kind of hopeless determination in the tone conveying complete indifference to all consequences: meat he must have. He was perfectly103 respectful; every order to be quiet or go away or go to bed was received with the formal raising of the hand aloft, the most respectful of salutations, and the assenting104, “Inkos!” but in the very next breath would come the old monotonous request, “Funa ’nyama, Inkos,” just as if he was saying it for the first time. The persistency was awful—it was maddening; and there was no remedy, for it was not the result of voluntary or even conscious effort on his part; it was a sort of automatic process, a result of his physical condition. Had he known it would cost him his life, he could no more have resisted it than have resisted breathing.
When the meat was there I gave it, and he would sit by the fire for hours eating incredible quantities—cutting it off in slabs105 and devouring106 it when not much more than warmed. But it was not always possible to satisfy him in that way; meat was expensive in the towns and often we had none at all at the waggons. Then the night became one long torment107: the spells of rest might extend from a quarter of an hour to an hour; then from the dead sleep of downright weariness I would be roused by the deep far-reaching voice; “Funa ’nyama, Inkos” wove itself into my dreams, and waking I would find Jim standing beside me remorselessly urging the same request in Zulu, in broken English, and in Dutch—“My wanta meat, Baas,” “Wil fleisch krij, Baas,” and the old, old, hatefully familiar explanation of the difference between “man’s food” and “piccanins’ food,” interspersed108 with grandiose109 declarations that he was “Makokela—Jim Makokel’,” who “catchum lion ’live.” Sometimes he would expand this into comparisons between himself and the other boys, much to their disadvantage; and on these occasions he invariably worked round to his private grievances110, and expressed his candid111 opinions of Sam.
Sam was the boy whom I usually set to do Jim’s neglected work. He was a ‘mission boy,’ that is a Christian112 kaffir—very proper in his behaviour, but a weakling and not much good at work. Jim would enumerate113 all Sam’s shortcomings; how he got his oxen mixed up on dark nights and could not pick them out of the herd—a quite unpardonable offence; how he stuck in the drifts and had to be ‘double-spanned’ and pulled out by Jim; how he once lost his way in the bush; and how he upset the waggon coming down the Devil’s Shoot.
Jim had once brought down the Berg from Spitzkop a loaded waggon on which there was a cottage piano packed standing upright. The road was an awful one, it is true, and few drivers could have handled so top-heavy a load without capsizing—he had received a bansela for his skill—but to him the feat7 was one without parallel in the history of waggon driving; and when drunk he usually coupled it with his other great achievement of catching114 a lion alive. His contempt for Sam’s misadventure on the Devil’s Shoot was therefore great, and to it was added resentment115 against Sam’s respectability and superior education, which the latter was able to rub in in safety by ostentatiously reading his Bible aloud at nights as they sat round the fire. Jim was a heathen, and openly affirmed his conviction that a Christian kaffir was an impostor, a bastard116, and a hypocrite—a thing not to be trusted under any circumstances whatever. The end of his morose117 outburst was always the same. When his detailed118 indictment119 of Sam was completed he would wind up with, “My catchum lion ’live. My bling panyanna fon Diskop (I bring piano from Spitzkop). My naam Makokela: Jim Makokel’. Sam no good; Sam leada Bible (Sam reads the Bible). Sam no good!” The intensity120 of conviction and the gloomy disgust put into the last reference to Sam are not to be expressed in words.
Where warning and punishment availed nothing threats would have been worse than foolish. Once, when he had broken bounds and left the waggons, I threatened that if he did it again I would tie him up, since he was like a dog that could not be trusted; and I did it. He had no excuse but the old ones; some one, he said, had brought him liquor to the waggons and he had not known what he was doing. The truth was that the craving grew so with the nearer prospect121 of drink that by hook or by crook122 he would find some one, a passerby123 or a boy from other waggons, to fetch some for him; and after that nothing could hold him.
If Jim ever wavered in his loyalty124 to me, it must have been the day I tied him up: he must have been very near hating me then. I had caught him as he was leaving the waggons and still sober; brought him back and told him to sit under his own waggon where I would tie him up like a dog. I took a piece of sail twine125, tied it to one wrist, and, fastening the other end to the waggon-wheel, left him.
A kaffir’s face becomes, when he wishes it, quite inscrutable—as expressionless as a blank wall. But there are exceptions to every rule; and Jim’s stoicism was not equal to this occasion. The look of unspeakable disgust and humiliation126 on his face was more than I could bear with comfort; and after half an hour or so in the pillory127 I released him. He did not say a word, but, heedless of the hot sun, rolled himself in his blankets and, sleeping or not, never moved for the rest of the day.
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1
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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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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3
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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7
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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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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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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33
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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34
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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35
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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36
haggled
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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38
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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39
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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41
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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42
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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43
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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44
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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45
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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46
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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47
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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48
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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49
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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50
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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51
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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52
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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53
untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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54
blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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55
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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56
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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57
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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58
catchy
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| adj.易记住的，诡诈的，易使人上当的 | |
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59
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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60
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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61
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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62
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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63
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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64
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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65
flayed
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| v.痛打( flay的过去式和过去分词 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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66
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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67
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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68
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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69
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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70
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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71
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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72
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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73
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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75
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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76
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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77
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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78
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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79
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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80
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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81
curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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82
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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83
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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84
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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85
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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86
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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87
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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88
linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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89
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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90
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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91
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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92
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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94
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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95
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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96
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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99
banishing
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
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100
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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101
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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102
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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103
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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104
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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105
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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106
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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107
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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108
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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109
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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110
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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111
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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112
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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113
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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114
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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115
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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116
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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117
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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118
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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119
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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120
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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121
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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122
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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123
passerby
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| n.过路人，行人 | |
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124
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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125
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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126
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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127
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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