Simpson, as has been said, was a very different man from Nixon. There was nothing flashy or loud about him, his voice was low, but cool and decisive, and his gray eyes gave one the impression that their owner was a fighter—an impression which was further deepened by the long, cloven chin. In a word, the grand secretary had picked out the very best man at his disposal when the demand had come for a delegate to succeed Nixon, for he felt that there must be no possibility of the situation at Wadsworth being bungled4 a second time.
“There’s one thing sure, however,” he had said to Simpson, at parting; “they’re bound to have a strike down there now, and there’s probably no way to stop it.”
And Simpson had found this to be true. To have attempted to withstand the white-hot fervour for a strike would have been worse than foolish, and he had yielded to it and called the strike. Now he was bending every effort to make the strike a success; or, at worst, to get out of the situation with as little loss of prestige as possible.
But the strike had not tied up the road as he had hoped it would. Conductors and brakemen had refused to go out without instructions from headquarters; switchmen and operators had not even asked for such instructions. And trains were running regularly, manned by a lot of new men who seemed fairly efficient. If the strike had started out with a mistake, Simpson was resolved that no others should be committed—especially not the fatal mistake of violence. And so he was taking care to establish himself in the liking5 and confidence of the older and more conservative men. If it came to a fight, he must be certain of his backing.
Over at the freight-house, the new men had got settled in their quarters and seemed fairly contented6 with them. If truth were told, sordid7 and unattractive as the surroundings were, most of the men had been accustomed to much worse. The food, too, however carelessly served, was at least clean and wholesome8, and only a person unused to anything but china and snowy linen9 would have quarrelled with the tin dishes and oil-cloth covered tables.
It was evident that the principal source of disturbance10 had been removed when Hummel had been compelled to leave the place; and yet there was no telling when a second Hummel might arise and leaven11 the entire group of men with discontent. Indeed, it was evident that many of them were not wholly at ease. In the midst of these unusually comfortable surroundings, they perhaps felt the same sense of disquiet12 which Jean Valjean felt in the Bishop’s bed; they were accustomed to a plank13 and could not sleep well upon springs and a mattress14; but this was not the sort of disquiet which would lead to any serious results.
And yet Reddy, who kept a keener eye than ever upon events in Stanley’s absence, was not altogether satisfied. Indeed, Stanley’s absence of itself puzzled him. Orders had been given that the adventure of the abandoned train was to be kept quiet as long as possible, and no word concerning it had been breathed inside the freight-house. So, as the day wore on, Reddy grew more and more uneasy, especially when he noted15 that Allan was also away. He suspected that something was wrong somewhere, and it annoyed him that he should be shut up like this, away from all communication with his fellow creatures. Certainly, he did not consider the cook a fellow creature, and, in spite of himself, he could not help feeling a sort of pitying contempt for the strike-breakers. For Reddy was honest, was industrious16, was temperate17, and he felt that few of the strike-breakers were any of these things.
“An’ a fine figger you cut here, don’t you,” he went on, following this train of thought, “washin’ dishes an’ makin’ beds an’ waitin’ on table, like a saloon loafer, instead o’ doin’ an honest man’s work! I’m goin’ t’ throw up the job. I ain’t doin’ no good here. These fellers are as contented as a lot o’ hogs18 in the sunshine. I’ll jest tell Allan—”
“Say!” suddenly bawled19 a voice in his ear, “air ye goin’ t’ sleep on yer feet? Wake up, an’ git a move!” and a heavy hand struck him a hard blow on the shoulder.
Reddy turned with a start, and the dish he was wiping slipped from his hands to the floor. Of course it did not break, as it was made of tin, but it made a tremendous clatter20.
“Stoopid!” yelled the cook, sticking his red face within a few inches of Reddy’s and waving his arms violently. “Awkward! I never saw nothin’ to beat you! You’re the limit!”
“An’ you calls yerself a dish-washer—”
“No, I don’t,” broke in Reddy. “An’ I never will now that I’ve seen you!”
But at that instant, Reddy’s fist was raised with seeming slowness and gentleness under the other’s jaw23, and the cook, lifted by some mysterious force cleanly off his feet, struck the floor with a thud.
“Good for you, turnip-top!” yelled one of the strike-breakers, as they came crowding around, attracted by the noise of the altercation24.
“Get up, cookie, get up!” yelled another. “You ain’t out yet—don’t show yellow!”
And Reddy, fairly dancing with rage, added his insults to the others’.
“Strike a gentleman, would ye!” he cried. “Don’t lay there blinkin’ like that! Stand up an take yer medicine like a man. Here, I’ll bring ye around!” and snatching the pan of dirty dish water from the table, he dashed it over his recumbent foe25.
A roar of laughter arose from the spectators; this was the sort of thing most of them delighted in; but their merriment acted on Reddy like a cold shower. He took one glance at them and then fiercely tore off the ragged26 piece of burlap he had been using as an apron27.
“An’ now I’ll bid ye good-bye,” he said. “I was jest thinkin’ o’ quittin’—this job don’t suit me,” and catching28 up his hat, he plunged29 through the door and past the astonished guard on the platform outside.
“Stop me if ye dare!” cried Reddy, and took off his hat and threw it high in the air, but the guard, recognizing him, turned away with a grin. “My, but it does feel good t’ be out in the air again an’ away from them dishes. I never knew before how good air smelt30.”
He filled his lungs to the limit and exhaled31 slowly, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he stopped and looked about the yards.
“Not much doin’,” he added, seeing the empty sidings; and, indeed, for fear it could not fulfil its engagements, the road was routing all the freight business possible through Columbus by way of the Midland division, instead of through Wadsworth, and was even handing some of it over to competing lines. “Why, hello, Jack32!” he cried, as Jack Welsh suddenly turned the corner of the freight-house.
Jack stared at him in astonishment33.
“Is it you, Reddy?” he asked. “When did you get out?”
“Faith,” said Reddy, his eyes twinkling, “it sounds like I’d been in the workhouse an’ me niver arrested in me life! I’ve throwed up me job.”
“Throwed up your job?”
“Since when have ye turned into an echo?” demanded Reddy.
Jack laughed.
“I was too surprised t’ say anything original. What was the trouble?”
“I couldn’t stand it—I couldn’t stand them vermin, nor washin’ dishes nor makin’ beds fer ’em—nor I couldn’t stand that varmint of a cook. He got smart,” went on Reddy, growing angry again at thought of it, “so I jest upper-cut him an’ throwed some dish water on him an’ come away.”
“But,” protested Jack, “what will Allan say?”
“I don’t care what he says,” retorted Reddy, doggedly34. “I ain’t needed in there—them fellers is like a flock of sheep—feed ’em an’ water ’em an’ they’ll never give any trouble. Besides, where is Allan—an’ where’s Stanley? Is there trouble somewheres, Jack?”
“Ain’t you heard about extra west last night?”
“Nary a word—a felly might as well be in his grave as in that freight-shed. What about extra west?”
So Jack told him the story of the abandoned train and missing crew, while Reddy stood listening with starting eyes and open mouth.
“Well, if that don’t beat anything I ever heard!” he said, when Jack had finished. “But Allan and Stanley wasn’t there—”
“No; they went out this mornin’ t’ look over the ground. They was expectin’ t’ come back this arternoon.”
A sudden shadow seemed to pass across Reddy’s face.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jack, noticing it.
“I was jest thinkin’,” said Reddy, speaking with some difficulty, “that I’d ’a’ liked to gone along.”
“So would I, but I wasn’t asked.”
“Well, good-bye,” Reddy said, turning away. “I’ve got t’ go home an’ see my missus, an’ git a decent meal. Jack,” he added, stopping and looking back, “if they don’t come back, let’s go out ourselves in the mornin’.”
“Oh, they’ll be back,” said Jack, confidently. “Allan, anyway. He knows he’s needed here.”
But the cloud had not lifted from Reddy’s face, as he walked away across the yards in the direction of his home.
The afternoon passed, and nothing was heard from either Allan or Stanley; evening fell, and still no sign of them. The disappointed reporters champed and swore and tried to inveigle35 the story out of some of the other employees of the office, but in vain; and finally, driven to desperation, they concocted36 such accounts of the affair as their several imaginations were capable of.
One thing they knew. The road’s chief dispatcher and detective were absent. From an absence to a disappearance37 is but a step, and it was with a certain satisfaction that they played up this feature of the case. At least, they would get even with West for trying to keep the news away from them. They described his career, his appearance, dwelt upon Stanley’s well-known prowess and fearlessness, and drew the conclusion that something extraordinary must have occurred to get the best of him. It made a good story, and the public read and was interested and mystified and wondered languidly how it would all turn out—and passed on to the next sensation.
But in one home, at least, as the weary hours of the night wore on, there was something more than languid interest and wonder. From her snowy bed, Mamie Welsh lay staring up into the darkness, her face flushed and feverish38, her eyes red with weeping, striving to suppress the sobs39 which shook her, so that her mother might not hear and understand.
For she knew, by a sort of clairvoyance40, as though his spirit called through space to hers, that Allan West lay somewhere in great peril41.
It was dark when Allan struggled back to consciousness,—not dark in the ordinary sense, but pitch dark,—a blackness that oppressed and chilled with the sense of some unknown and unspeakable peril. He lay for a long time without moving, without thinking, just conscious in a dim way that he existed. Gradually he became aware of an all-pervading pain, which finally resolved into an aching head and an aching shoulder and cramped42 legs and arms. Then, in a flash, life surged in on him and he remembered the old stone house, the barn, the shadow, the blow which he had tried to avoid.
He struggled to get to his feet, only to fall back with a groan43 of anguish44; for his hands were tied behind him and his feet were lashed45 together. Even had he been free, his whirling, aching head would have chained him down.
But his head grew clearer after a while and he could think connectedly. Where was he? Not in the barn, that was certain, for he could feel beneath him a floor of boards, instead of the wet and clammy dirt upon which he had fallen. In the house, then—his unknown assailant had carried him into the house, tied him hand and foot and left him.
For what purpose?
But that was a question for which he could find no reasonable answer; nor could he even guess at his assailant’s identity. This murderous assault had made the mystery more puzzling than ever, for he could guess at no motive46 for it. Certainly he was not the victim of personal enmity, for he knew that he had no enemies—Dan Nolan’s death had delivered him from the only one he ever had who was capable of resorting to such methods as this. Nor could he see how his being held a prisoner here could possibly be of any benefit to anyone. Indeed, there was certain to be a hue47 and cry after him if he was held a prisoner long. Stanley would know where to look for him—and there were Jack and Reddy.
Allan’s eyes filled with tears as he thought of the anxiety they were doubtless suffering. And Mamie—was she suffering, too? Somehow, the thought of her was a very dear and moving one, and he whispered her name over and over to himself. If only—
He felt singularly weak and helpless; he could do nothing but lie where he was and await the will of his captors. He wondered vaguely48 what they would do with him, and he turned the thought over in his mind with a kind of impersonal49 interest as though it were not at all himself, but someone else entirely50 who was principally concerned. It seemed almost as though he were watching a drama in which he himself was an actor.
The cramped posture51 in which he lay became insupportable at last, and he managed, with infinite suffering, to turn himself over on his side. Then, finding himself somewhat easier, he at last dropped off to sleep.
He was awakened53 by a flash of light in his eyes. For a minute, he saw only a dim figure holding a lantern, then, with clearing vision, he found himself staring into a face which sent a chill of horror through him. Never before had he seen a face so repulsive54. The round head, set low between the shoulders, was crowned by a dirty towsel of hair which fell over the low forehead almost into the eyes. These, bloodshot and venomous, were sunk deep into the head and ambushed55 under bristling56 eyebrows57. The nose, a mere58 unformed lump of flesh, overhung a mouth whose pendulous59, blackened lips were parted in a malicious60 grin. The figure was squat61 and heavy, telling of great strength and even of a certain agility62; but to the figure Allan gave only a single glance, for the face fascinated him as only superlatively ugly things can.
For a moment, this being stood shading his eyes from the lantern light with a great, hairy hand, and staring down at his prisoner. Then, with a hoarse63 grunt64 of satisfaction, he turned toward the door.
“Hold on!” he cried. “Hold on!”
The fellow hesitated for an instant, and then turned back, and stood regarding Allan with that diabolical66 leer still upon his lips.
“What’s all this about?” demanded Allan, steeling himself to endure the gaze of those crafty67 and threatening eyes. “How long am I going to be kept here?”
“My friends will be after me in the morning.”
“It will go hard with you if they find me here.”
“Don’t worry; they won’t find you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
But the other only laughed again by way of answer.
“Was it you who struck me out there in the stable?”
“It surely was.”
“What had I done?”
“You hadn’t no business out there nor around here.”
“Maybe not,” Allan admitted. “Let me go and I’ll clear out.”
The words were greeted by a burst of laughter, so wild that Allan was suddenly convinced that he had to do with a wild man, a lunatic wholly irresponsible for his actions. The thought sent a deeper chill through him.
“Let me go,” he urged more gently. “I have done you no harm.”
“Ain’t you, though!” retorted his strange companion. “Well, you’ll never do nobody else no harm, neither.”
Allan heard his footsteps die away along the hall outside, and then, after a moment, came that queer murmur76 of voices which he had heard from the back door, only louder and clearer. And a sudden conviction leaped into his mind.
The missing train crew was imprisoned77 here also.
He listened with bated breath as the murmur grew and grew, and finally died away as though it had spent itself. He judged that his captor had visited the other prisoners to make sure they were all safe, and had then departed.
But who was this wild man? What sort of monster was this which had been let loose upon the world? How, single handed, had he been able to capture five men? And what was his object in doing so?
Here were three questions to which no reasonable answer seemed possible. Allan felt almost as though he were living through some terrible nightmare, from which he must presently awaken52. Surely such things as this could not happen here in Ohio, in the midst of a thickly populated country! In the Middle Ages, perhaps; but not here in the twentieth century!
The pain of his position had become excessive, and he rolled over on his back, and sought to ease himself a little. He could feel that his hair was clotted78 with blood, and from the pain in his shoulder he was convinced that a bone had been broken—his collar-bone, probably. His head grew giddy after a while and a deathly sickness came upon him. The close and fetid atmosphere of the room seemed to stifle79 him. He shrieked80 aloud, but there was no response, and presently he lapsed81 into a sort of half-consciousness.
He fancied that he was stretched upon the rack, that black-hooded inquisitors were advancing to the torture. He could feel the bonds about hands and feet slowly tighten82 and stretch, and a pang83 of agony shot through him. What was it they wanted him to confess? Something involving Jack—something involving Mamie. No, he would never confess—after all, there was nothing to confess—it was a lie they were trying to wring84 from him. Again the cords tightened85 and stretched; he was being torn asunder86, but he clenched87 his teeth and crushed back the groan which would have burst from him. Again—and this time there was no resisting, and he cried aloud—
Cried aloud and opened his eyes, and, after a moment, realized where he was. He was panting for breath, for the air was thick with smoke. Afar off, he could hear a frantic88 shouting, which beat in upon his brain and turned him faint, so agonized89 it was. They were torturing some one else—they had left him for the moment to regain90 some measure of strength. No, they had decided91 to suffocate92 him; they had started a fire under him—it was to be the trial of flame! Mamie, Mamie—he would never tell!
Then, suddenly, he understood. The house was on fire—that madman had fired it—that shouting was from the other prisoners, who were perhaps already being roasted alive! Roasted alive!
He wrenched93 frantically94 at his bonds, but they held as though of iron. He struggled to a sitting posture, but could rise no further. By an effort almost superhuman, he dragged himself to the door, and turning his back to it, tore at it with his fingers. Then he managed to raise himself so that his fingers clutched the latch95; the door swung open and he fell backward into the hall.
That fall racked him with agony, but, with sweat running down his face in little rivulets96, he managed to grovel97 forward, inch by inch, pushing himself along by his legs, sparing his injured shoulder as much as he could. One foot, two feet, three feet. Then, suddenly, he realized that his head was hanging over an abyss—his shoulders were over—and in an instant he had pitched forward wildly, and fell shrieking98 into the darkness.
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收听单词发音
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1
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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3
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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4
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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6
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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7
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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9
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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10
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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19
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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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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22
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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29
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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30
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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31
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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32
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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33
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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37
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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38
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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39
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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clairvoyance
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| n.超人的洞察力 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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42
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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43
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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44
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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45
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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46
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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47
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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48
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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49
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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50
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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51
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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52
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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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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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pendulous
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| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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85
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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98
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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