I
THE Zenith Street Traction1 Company planned to build car-repair shops in the suburb of Dorchester, but when they came to buy the land they found it held, on options, by the Babbitt–Thompson Realty Company. The purchasing-agent, the first vice-president, and even the president of the Traction Company protested against the Babbitt price. They mentioned their duty toward stockholders, they threatened an appeal to the courts, though somehow the appeal to the courts was never carried out and the officials found it wiser to compromise with Babbitt. Carbon copies of the correspondence are in the company’s files, where they may be viewed by any public commission.
Just after this Babbitt deposited three thousand dollars in the bank, the purchasing-agent of the Street Traction Company bought a five thousand dollar car, he first vice-president built a home in Devon Woods, and the president was appointed minister to a foreign country.
To obtain the options, to tie up one man’s land without letting his neighbor know, had been an unusual strain on Babbitt. It was necessary to introduce rumors3 about planning garages and stores, to pretend that he wasn’t taking any more options, to wait and look as bored as a poker-player at a time when the failure to secure a key-lot threatened his whole plan. To all this was added a nerve-jabbing quarrel with his secret associates in the deal. They did not wish Babbitt and Thompson to have any share in the deal except as brokers4. Babbitt rather agreed. “Ethics5 of the business-broker ought to strictly6 represent his principles and not get in on the buying,” he said to Thompson.
“Ethics, rats! Think I’m going to see that bunch of holy grafters get away with the swag and us not climb in?” snorted old Henry.
“Well, I don’t like to do it. Kind of double-crossing.”
“It ain’t. It’s triple-crossing. It’s the public that gets double-crossed. Well, now we’ve been ethical7 and got it out of our systems, the question is where we can raise a loan to handle some of the property for ourselves, on the Q. T. We can’t go to our bank for it. Might come out.”
“I could see old Eathorne. He’s close as the tomb.”
“That’s the stuff.”
Eathorne was glad, he said, to “invest in character,” to make Babbitt the loan and see to it that the loan did not appear on the books of the bank. Thus certain of the options which Babbitt and Thompson obtained were on parcels of real estate which they themselves owned, though the property did not appear in their names.
In the midst of closing this splendid deal, which stimulated8 business and public confidence by giving an example of increased real-estate activity, Babbitt was overwhelmed to find that he had a dishonest person working for him.
The dishonest one was Stanley Graff, the outside salesman.
For some time Babbitt had been worried about Graff. He did not keep his word to tenants9. In order to rent a house he would promise repairs which the owner had not authorized11. It was suspected that he juggled12 inventories13 of furnished houses so that when the tenant10 left he had to pay for articles which had never been in the house and the price of which Graff put into his pocket. Babbitt had not been able to prove these suspicions, and though he had rather planned to discharge Graff he had never quite found time for it.
Now into Babbitt’s private room charged a red-faced man, panting, “Look here! I’ve come to raise particular merry hell, and unless you have that fellow pinched, I will!” “What’s — Calm down, o’ man. What’s trouble?”
“Trouble! Huh! Here’s the trouble —”
“Sit down and take it easy! They can hear you all over the building!”
“This fellow Graff you got working for you, he leases me a house. I was in yesterday and signs the lease, all O.K., and he was to get the owner’s signature and mail me the lease last night. Well, and he did. This morning I comes down to breakfast and the girl says a fellow had come to the house right after the early delivery and told her he wanted an envelope that had been mailed by mistake, big long envelope with ‘Babbitt–Thompson’ in the corner of it. Sure enough, there it was, so she lets him have it. And she describes the fellow to me, and it was this Graff. So I ‘phones to him and he, the poor fool, he admits it! He says after my lease was all signed he got a better offer from another fellow and he wanted my lease back. Now what you going to do about it?”
“Your name is —?”
“William Varney — W. K. Varney.”
“Oh, yes. That was the Garrison14 house.” Babbitt sounded the buzzer15. When Miss McGoun came in, he demanded, “Graff gone out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you look through his desk and see if there is a lease made out to Mr. Varney on the Garrison house?” To Varney: “Can’t tell you how sorry I am this happened. Needless to say, I’ll fire Graff the minute he comes in. And of course your lease stands. But there’s one other thing I’d like to do. I’ll tell the owner not to pay us the commission but apply it to your rent. No! Straight! I want to. To be frank, this thing shakes me up bad. I suppose I’ve always been a Practical Business Man. Probably I’ve told one or two fairy stories in my time, when the occasion called for it — you know: sometimes you have to lay things on thick, to impress boneheads. But this is the first time I’ve ever had to accuse one of my own employees of anything more dishonest than pinching a few stamps. Honest, it would hurt me if we profited by it. So you’ll let me hand you the commission? Good!”
II
He walked through the February city, where trucks flung up a spattering of slush and the sky was dark above dark brick cornices. He came back miserable16. He, who respected the law, had broken it by concealing18 the Federal crime of interception19 of the mails. But he could not see Graff go to jail and his wife suffer. Worse, he had to discharge Graff and this was a part of office routine which he feared. He liked people so much, he so much wanted them to like him that he could not bear insulting them.
Miss McGoun dashed in to whisper, with the excitement of an approaching scene, “He’s here!”
“Mr. Graff? Ask him to come in.”
He tried to make himself heavy and calm in his chair, and to keep his eyes expressionless. Graff stalked in — a man of thirty-five, dapper, eye-glassed, with a foppish20 mustache.
“Want me?” said Graff.
“Yes. Sit down.”
Graff continued to stand, grunting21, “I suppose that old nut Varney has been in to see you. Let me explain about him. He’s a regular tightwad, and he sticks out for every cent, and he practically lied to me about his ability to pay the rent — I found that out just after we signed up. And then another fellow comes along with a better offer for the house, and I felt it was my duty to the firm to get rid of Varney, and I was so worried about it I skun up there and got back the lease. Honest, Mr. Babbitt, I didn’t intend to pull anything crooked22. I just wanted the firm to have all the commis —”
“Wait now, Stan. This may all be true, but I’ve been having a lot of complaints about you. Now I don’t s’pose you ever mean to do wrong, and I think if you just get a good lesson that’ll jog you up a little, you’ll turn out a first-class realtor yet. But I don’t see how I can keep you on.”
Graff leaned against the filing-cabinet, his hands in his pockets, and laughed. “So I’m fired! Well, old Vision and Ethics, I’m tickled23 to death! But I don’t want you to think you can get away with any holier-than-thou stuff. Sure I’ve pulled some raw stuff — a little of it — but how could I help it, in this office?”
“Now, by God, young man —”
“Tut, tut! Keep the naughty temper down, and don’t holler, because everybody in the outside office will hear you. They’re probably listening right now. Babbitt, old dear, you’re crooked in the first place and a damn skinflint in the second. If you paid me a decent salary I wouldn’t have to steal pennies off a blind man to keep my wife from starving. Us married just five months, and her the nicest girl living, and you keeping us flat broke all the time, you damned old thief, so you can put money away for your saphead of a son and your wishywashy fool of a daughter! Wait, now! You’ll by God take it, or I’ll bellow24 so the whole office will hear it! And crooked — Say, if I told the prosecuting25 attorney what I know about this last Street Traction option steal, both you and me would go to jail, along with some nice, clean, pious26, high-up traction guns!”
“Well, Stan, looks like we were coming down to cases. That deal — There was nothing crooked about it. The only way you can get progress is for the broad-gauged men to get things done; and they got to be rewarded —”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, don’t get virtuous27 on me! As I gather it, I’m fired. All right. It’s a good thing for me. And if I catch you knocking me to any other firm, I’ll squeal28 all I know about you and Henry T. and the dirty little lickspittle deals that you corporals of industry pull off for the bigger and brainier crooks29, and you’ll get chased out of town. And me — you’re right, Babbitt, I’ve been going crooked, but now I’m going straight, and the first step will be to get a job in some office where the boss doesn’t talk about Ideals. Bad luck, old dear, and you can stick your job up the sewer30!”
Babbitt sat for a long time, alternately raging, “I’ll have him arrested,” and yearning31 “I wonder — No, I’ve never done anything that wasn’t necessary to keep the Wheels of Progress moving.”
Next day he hired in Graff’s place Fritz Weilinger, the salesman of his most injurious rival, the East Side Homes and Development Company, and thus at once annoyed his competitor and acquired an excellent man. Young Fritz was a curly-headed, merry, tennis-playing youngster. He made customers welcome to the office. Babbitt thought of him as a son, and in him had much comfort.
III
An abandoned race-track on the outskirts32 of Chicago, a plot excellent for factory sites, was to be sold, and Jake Offut asked Babbitt to bid on it for him. The strain of the Street Traction deal and his disappointment in Stanley Graff had so shaken Babbitt that he found it hard to sit at his desk and concentrate. He proposed to his family, “Look here, folks! Do you know who’s going to trot33 up to Chicago for a couple of days — just week-end; won’t lose but one day of school — know who’s going with that celebrated34 business-ambassador, George F. Babbitt? Why, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt Babbitt!”
“Hurray!” Ted2 shouted, and “Oh, maybe the Babbitt men won’t paint that lil ole town red!”
And, once away from the familiar implications of home, they were two men together. Ted was young only in his assumption of oldness, and the only realms, apparently35, in which Babbitt had a larger and more grown-up knowledge than Ted’s were the details of real estate and the phrases of politics. When the other sages36 of the Pullman smoking-compartment had left them to themselves, Babbitt’s voice did not drop into the playful and otherwise offensive tone in which one addresses children but continued its overwhelming and monotonous37 rumble38, and Ted tried to imitate it in his strident tenor39:
“Gee, dad, you certainly did show up that poor boot when he got flip40 about the League of Nations!”
“Well, the trouble with a lot of these fellows is, they simply don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t get down to facts.... What do you think of Ken17 Escott?”
“I’ll tell you, dad: it strikes me Ken is a nice lad; no special faults except he smokes too much; but slow, Lord! Why, if we don’t give him a shove the poor dumb-bell never will propose! And Rone just as bad. Slow.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right. They’re slow. They haven’t either one of ’em got our pep.”
“That’s right. They’re slow. I swear, dad, I don’t know how Rone got into our family! I’ll bet, if the truth were known, you were a bad old egg when you were a kid!”
“Well, I wasn’t so slow!”
“I’ll bet you weren’t! I’ll bet you didn’t miss many tricks!”
“Well, when I was out with the girls I didn’t spend all the time telling ’em about the strike in the knitting industry!”
They roared together, and together lighted cigars.
“What are we going to do with ’em?” Babbitt consulted.
“Gosh, I don’t know. I swear, sometimes I feel like taking Ken aside and putting him over the jumps and saying to him, ‘Young fella me lad, are you going to marry young Rone, or are you going to talk her to death? Here you are getting on toward thirty, and you’re only making twenty or twenty-five a week. When you going to develop a sense of responsibility and get a raise? If there’s anything that George F. or I can do to help you, call on us, but show a little speed, anyway!’”
“Well, at that, it might not be so bad if you or I talked to him, except he might not understand. He’s one of these high brows. He can’t come down to cases and lay his cards on the table and talk straight out from the shoulder, like you or I can.”
“That’s right, he’s like all these highbrows.”
“That’s so, like all of ’em.”
“That’s a fact.”
They sighed, and were silent and thoughtful and happy.
The conductor came in. He had once called at Babbitt’s office, to ask about houses. “H’ are you, Mr. Babbitt! We going to have you with us to Chicago? This your boy?”
“Yes, this is my son Ted.”
“Well now, what do you know about that! Here I been thinking you were a youngster yourself, not a day over forty, hardly, and you with this great big fellow!”
“Forty? Why, brother, I’ll never see forty-five again!”
“Is that a fact! Wouldn’t hardly ‘a’ thought it!”
“Yes, sir, it’s a bad give-away for the old man when he has to travel with a young whale like Ted here!”
“You’re right, it is.” To Ted: “I suppose you’re in college now.
Proudly, “No, not till next fall. I’m just kind of giving the diff’rent colleges the once-over now.”
As the conductor went on his affable way, huge watch-chain jingling41 against his blue chest, Babbitt and Ted gravely considered colleges. They arrived at Chicago late at night; they lay abed in the morning, rejoicing, “Pretty nice not to have to get up and get down to breakfast, heh?” They were staying at the modest Eden Hotel, because Zenith business men always stayed at the Eden, but they had dinner in the brocade and crystal Versailles Room of the Regency Hotel. Babbitt ordered Blue Point oysters42 with cocktail43 sauce, a tremendous steak with a tremendous platter of French fried potatoes, two pots of coffee, apple pie with ice cream for both of them and, for Ted, an extra piece of mince44 pie.
“Hot stuff! Some feed, young fella!” Ted admired.
“Huh! You stick around with me, old man, and I’ll show you a good time!”
They went to a musical comedy and nudged each other at the matrimonial jokes and the prohibition45 jokes; they paraded the lobby, arm in arm, between acts, and in the glee of his first release from the shame which dissevers fathers and sons Ted chuckled46, “Dad, did you ever hear the one about the three milliners and the judge?”
When Ted had returned to Zenith, Babbitt was lonely. As he was trying to make alliance between Offutt and certain Milwaukee interests which wanted the race-track plot, most of his time was taken up in waiting for telephone calls.... Sitting on the edge of his bed, holding the portable telephone, asking wearily, “Mr. Sagen not in yet? Didn’ he leave any message for me? All right, I’ll hold the wire.” Staring at a stain on the wall, reflecting that it resembled a shoe, and being bored by this twentieth discovery that it resembled a shoe. Lighting47 a cigarette; then, bound to the telephone with no ashtray48 in reach, wondering what to do with this burning menace and anxiously trying to toss it into the tiled bathroom. At last, on the telephone, “No message, eh? All right, I’ll call up again.”
One afternoon he wandered through snow-rutted streets of which he had never heard, streets of small tenements49 and two-family houses and marooned50 cottages. It came to him that he had nothing to do, that there was nothing he wanted to do. He was bleakly51 lonely in the evening, when he dined by himself at the Regency Hotel. He sat in the lobby afterward52, in a plush chair bedecked with the Saxe–Coburg arms, lighting a cigar and looking for some one who would come and play with him and save him from thinking. In the chair next to him (showing the arms of Lithuania) was a half-familiar man, a large red-faced man with pop eyes and a deficient53 yellow mustache. He seemed kind and insignificant54, and as lonely as Babbitt himself. He wore a tweed suit and a reluctant orange tie.
It came to Babbitt with a pyrotechnic crash. The melancholy55 stranger was Sir Gerald Doak.
Instinctively56 Babbitt rose, bumbling, “How ‘re you, Sir Gerald? ‘Member we met in Zenith, at Charley McKelvey’s? Babbitt’s my name — real estate.”
“Oh! How d’ you do.” Sir Gerald shook hands flabbily.
Embarrassed, standing57, wondering how he could retreat, Babbitt maundered, “Well, I suppose you been having a great trip since we saw you in Zenith.”
“Quite. British Columbia and California and all over the place,” he said doubtfully, looking at Babbitt lifelessly.
“How did you find business conditions in British Columbia? Or I suppose maybe you didn’t look into ’em. Scenery and sport and so on?”
“Scenery? Oh, capital. But business conditions — You know, Mr. Babbitt, they’re having almost as much unemployment as we are.” Sir Gerald was speaking warmly now.
“So? Business conditions not so doggone good, eh?”
“No, business conditions weren’t at all what I’d hoped to find them.”
“Not good, eh?”
“No, not — not really good.”
“That’s a darn shame. Well — I suppose you’re waiting for somebody to take you out to some big shindig, Sir Gerald.”
“Shindig? Oh. Shindig. No, to tell you the truth, I was wondering what the deuce I could do this evening. Don’t know a soul in Tchicahgo. I wonder if you happen to know whether there’s a good theater in this city?”
“Good? Why say, they’re running grand opera right now! I guess maybe you’d like that.”
“Eh? Eh? Went to the opera once in London. Covent Garden sort of thing. Shocking! No, I was wondering if there was a good cinema-movie.”
Babbitt was sitting down, hitching58 his chair over, shouting, “Movie? Say, Sir Gerald, I supposed of course you had a raft of dames59 waiting to lead you out to some soiree —”
“God forbid!”
“— but if you haven’t, what do you say you and me go to a movie? There’s a peach of a film at the Grantham: Bill Hart in a bandit picture.”
“Right-o! Just a moment while I get my coat.”
Swollen60 with greatness, slightly afraid lest the noble blood of Nottingham change its mind and leave him at any street corner, Babbitt paraded with Sir Gerald Doak to the movie palace and in silent bliss61 sat beside him, trying not to be too enthusiastic, lest the knight62 despise his adoration63 of six-shooters and broncos. At the end Sir Gerald murmured, “Jolly good picture, this. So awfully64 decent of you to take me. Haven’t enjoyed myself so much for weeks. All these Hostesses — they never let you go to the cinema!”
“The devil you say!” Babbitt’s speech had lost the delicate refinement65 and all the broad A’s with which he had adorned66 it, and become hearty67 and natural. “Well, I’m tickled to death you liked it, Sir Gerald.”
They crawled past the knees of fat women into the aisle68; they stood in the lobby waving their arms in the rite69 of putting on overcoats. Babbitt hinted, “Say, how about a little something to eat? I know a place where we could get a swell70 rarebit, and we might dig up a little drink — that is, if you ever touch the stuff.”
“Rather! But why don’t you come to my room? I’ve some Scotch71 — not half bad.”
“Oh, I don’t want to use up all your hootch. It’s darn nice of you, but — You probably want to hit the hay.”
Sir Gerald was transformed. He was beefily yearning. “Oh really, now; I haven’t had a decent evening for so long! Having to go to all these dances. No chance to discuss business and that sort of thing. Do be a good chap and come along. Won’t you?”
“Will I? You bet! I just thought maybe — Say, by golly, it does do a fellow good, don’t it, to sit and visit about business conditions, after he’s been to these balls and masquerades and banquets and all that society stuff. I often feel that way in Zenith. Sure, you bet I’ll come.”
“That’s awfully nice of you.” They beamed along the street. “Look here, old chap, can you tell me, do American cities always keep up this dreadful social pace? All these magnificent parties?”
“Go on now, quit your kidding! Gosh, you with court balls and functions and everything —”
“No, really, old chap! Mother and I— Lady Doak, I should say, we usually play a hand of bezique and go to bed at ten. Bless my soul, I couldn’t keep up your beastly pace! And talking! All your American women, they know so much — culture and that sort of thing. This Mrs. McKelvey — your friend —”
“Yuh, old Lucile. Good kid.”
“— she asked me which of the galleries I liked best in Florence. Or was it in Firenze? Never been in Italy in my life! And primitives73. Did I like primitives. Do you know what the deuce a primitive72 is?”
“Me? I should say not! But I know what a discount for cash is.”
“Rather! So do I, by George! But primitives!”
“Yuh! Primitives!”
They laughed with the sound of a Boosters’ luncheon74.
Sir Gerald’s room was, except for his ponderous75 and durable76 English bags, very much like the room of George F. Babbitt; and quite in the manner of Babbitt he disclosed a huge whisky flask77, looked proud and hospitable78, and chuckled, “Say, when, old chap.”
It was after the third drink that Sir Gerald proclaimed, “How do you Yankees get the notion that writing chaps like Bertrand Shaw and this Wells represent us? The real business England, we think those chaps are traitors79. Both our countries have their comic Old Aristocracy — you know, old county families, hunting people and all that sort of thing — and we both have our wretched labor80 leaders, but we both have a backbone81 of sound business men who run the whole show.”
“You bet. Here’s to the real guys!”
“I’m with you! Here’s to ourselves!”
It was after the fourth drink that Sir Gerald asked humbly82, “What do you think of North Dakota mortgages?” but it was not till after the fifth that Babbitt began to call him “Jerry,” and Sir Gerald confided83, “I say, do you mind if I pull off my boots?” and ecstatically stretched his knightly84 feet, his poor, tired, hot, swollen feet out on the bed.
After the sixth, Babbitt irregularly arose. “Well, I better be hiking along. Jerry, you’re a regular human being! I wish to thunder we’d been better acquainted in Zenith. Lookit. Can’t you come back and stay with me a while?”
“So sorry — must go to New York to-morrow. Most awfully sorry, old boy. I haven’t enjoyed an evening so much since I’ve been in the States. Real talk. Not all this social rot. I’d never have let them give me the beastly title — and I didn’t get it for nothing, eh?— if I’d thought I’d have to talk to women about primitives and polo! Goodish thing to have in Nottingham, though; annoyed the mayor most frightfully when I got it; and of course the missus likes it. But nobody calls me ‘Jerry’ now —” He was almost weeping. “— and nobody in the States has treated me like a friend till to-night! Good-by, old chap, good-by! Thanks awfully!”
“Don’t mention it, Jerry. And remember whenever you get to Zenith, the latch-string is always out.”
“And don’t forget, old boy. if you ever come to Nottingham, Mother and I will be frightfully glad to see you. I shall tell the fellows in Nottingham your ideas about Visions and Real Guys — at our next Rotary85 Club luncheon.”
IV
Babbitt lay abed at his hotel, imagining the Zenith Athletic86 Club asking him, “What kind of a time d’you have in Chicago?” and his answering, “Oh, fair; ran around with Sir Gerald Doak a lot;” picturing himself meeting Lucile McKelvey and admonishing87 her, “You’re all right, Mrs. Mac, when you aren’t trying to pull this highbrow pose. It’s just as Gerald Doak says to me in Chicago — oh, yes, Jerry’s an old friend of mine — the wife and I are thinking of running over to England to stay with Jerry in his castle, next year — and he said to me, ‘Georgie, old bean, I like Lucile first-rate, but you and me, George, we got to make her get over this highty-tighty hooptediddle way she’s got.”
But that evening a thing happened which wrecked88 his pride.
V
At the Regency Hotel cigar-counter he fell to talking with a salesman of pianos, and they dined together. Babbitt was filled with friendliness89 and well-being90. He enjoyed the gorgeousness of the dining-room: the chandeliers, the looped brocade curtains, the portraits of French kings against panels of gilded91 oak. He enjoyed the crowd: pretty women, good solid fellows who were “liberal spenders.”
He gasped92. He stared, and turned away, and stared again. Three tables off, with a doubtful sort of woman, a woman at once coy and withered93, was Paul Riesling, and Paul was supposed to be in Akron, selling tar-roofing. The woman was tapping his hand, mooning at him and giggling94. Babbitt felt that he had encountered something involved and harmful. Paul was talking with the rapt eagerness of a man who is telling his troubles. He was concentrated on the woman’s faded eyes. Once he held her hand and once, blind to the other guests, he puckered95 his lips as though he was pretending to kiss her. Babbitt had so strong an impulse to go to Paul that he could feel his body uncoiling, his shoulders moving, but he felt, desperately96, that he must be diplomatic, and not till he saw Paul paying the check did he bluster97 to the piano-salesman, “By golly-friend of mine over there —‘scuse me second — just say hello to him.”
He touched Paul’s shoulder, and cried, “Well, when did you hit town?”
Paul glared up at him, face hardening. “Oh, hello, George. Thought you’d gone back to Zenith.” He did not introduce his companion. Babbitt peeped at her. She was a flabbily pretty, weakly flirtatious98 woman of forty-two or three, in an atrocious flowery hat. Her rouging99 was thorough but unskilful.
“Where you staying, Paulibus?”
The woman turned, yawned, examined her nails. She seemed accustomed to not being introduced.
Paul grumbled100, “Campbell Inn, on the South Side.”
“Alone?” It sounded insinuating101.
“Yes! Unfortunately!” Furiously Paul turned toward the woman, smiling with a fondness sickening to Babbitt. “May! Want to introduce you. Mrs. Arnold, this is my old-acquaintance, George Babbitt.”
“Pleasmeech,” growled102 Babbitt, while she gurgled, “Oh, I’m very pleased to meet any friend of Mr. Riesling’s, I’m sure.”
Babbitt demanded, “Be back there later this evening, Paul? I’ll drop down and see you.”
“No, better — We better lunch together to-morrow.”
“All right, but I’ll see you to-night, too, Paul. I’ll go down to your hotel, and I’ll wait for you!”
收听单词发音 |
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traction
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| n.牵引；附着摩擦力 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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stimulated
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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inventories
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| n.总结( inventory的名词复数 )；细账；存货清单（或财产目录）的编制 | |
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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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15
buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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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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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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18
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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19
interception
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| n.拦截；截击；截取；截住，截断；窃听 | |
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20
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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21
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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22
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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23
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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24
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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29
crooks
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| n.骗子( crook的名词复数 )；罪犯；弯曲部分；（牧羊人或主教用的）弯拐杖v.弯成钩形( crook的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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31
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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32
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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33
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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36
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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38
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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40
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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41
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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42
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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43
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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44
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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45
prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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46
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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48
ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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marooned
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| adj.被围困的；孤立无援的；无法脱身的 | |
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51
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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52
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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53
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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54
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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57
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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58
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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59
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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61
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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62
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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63
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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67
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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68
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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69
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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70
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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71
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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72
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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73
primitives
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| 原始人（primitive的复数形式） | |
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74
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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75
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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76
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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77
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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78
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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79
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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80
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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81
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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82
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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83
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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84
knightly
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| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
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85
rotary
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| adj.(运动等)旋转的；轮转的；转动的 | |
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86
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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87
admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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88
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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89
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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90
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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91
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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92
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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93
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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94
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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95
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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97
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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98
flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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99
rouging
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的现在分词 ) | |
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100
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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101
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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102
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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