The boy’s manner betrayed that mixture of defiance9 and diffidence which a young man going out into the world for the first time feels in the presence of older and more experienced men. And this was the way he felt. And for this reason in the sharp and casual stare which the men fixed10 briefly on him there may have been unconsciously something affectionate and tender as each one recalled a moment of his own lost youth.
The boy felt the powerful movement of the train beneath him and the lonely austerity and mystery of the dark earth outside that swept past for ever with a fanlike stroke, an immortal12 and imperturbable13 stillness. It seemed to him that these two terrific negatives of speed and stillness, the hurtling and projectile14 movement of the train and the calm silence of the everlasting15 earth, were poles of a single unity16 — a unity coherent with his destiny, whose source was somehow in himself.
It seemed to him that this incredible and fortunate miracle of his own life and fate had ordered all these accidental facts into coherent and related meanings. He felt that everything — the powerful movement of the train, the infinite mystery and lonely wildness of the earth, the feeling of luxury, abundance, and unlimited17 wealth that was stimulated18 by the rich furnishings of the Pullman, and the general air of affluence20 of these prosperous men — belonged to him, had come out of his own life, and were ready to serve him at his own behest and control.
It seemed to him that the glorious moment for which his whole life had been shaped, and toward which every energy and desire in his spirit had been turned, was now here.
As that incredible knowledge came to him, a fury, wild, savage21, wordless, pulsed through his blood and filled him with such a swelling23 and exultant24 joy as he has never known before. He felt the savage tongueless cry of pain and joy swell22 up and thicken in his throat, he felt a rending25 and illimitable power in him as if he could twist steel between his fingers, and he felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to yell into the faces of the men with a demonic glee.
Instead he just sat down quickly with an abrupt7, half-defiant movement, lit his cigarette, and spoke27 to one of the men quickly and diffidently, saying:
“Hello, Mr. Flood.”
For a moment, the man thus addressed said nothing, but sat staring at the boy stupidly with an expression of heavy surprise. He was a well-dressed but bloated-looking man in his fifties whose gross figure even in repose28 betrayed a gouty tendency. His face, which had the satiny rosy29 texture30, veinous and tender, that alcoholism and a daily massage31 can give, was brutally32 coarse and sensual, but was given a disturbing and decisive character by his bulging34 yellow eyeballs and the gross lewd35 mouth which, because of several large buck36 teeth whose discoloured surfaces protruded37 under the upper lip, seemed always to be half opened and half smiling. And it was not a pleasant smile. It was a smile, faint, unmistakably sensual, and rather sly. It seemed to come from some huge choking secret glee and there was in it a quality that was jubilantly obscene.
For a moment more Mr. Flood stared through his bulging eyes at the boy who had just spoken to him, with an air of comical and stupid surprise. Then amiably38, but with a puzzled undertone, he said gruffly:
“Hello. Oh, hello, son! How are you?”
And after looking at the boy a moment longer, he turned his attention to the other men again.
It was at just that season of the year when two events which are dear to the speculations39 of the American had absorbed the public interest. These events were baseball and politics, and at that moment both were thrillingly imminent40. The annual baseball contests for “the championship of the world” were to begin within another day or two, and the national campaign for the election of the American president, which would be held in another month, was moving daily to its furious apogee42 of speeches, accusations43, dire44 predictions, and impassioned promises. Both events gave the average American a thrill of pleasurable anticipation45: his approach to both was essentially46 the same. It was the desire of a man to see a good show, to “take sides” vigorously in an exciting contest — to be amused, involved as an interested spectator is involved, but not to be too deeply troubled or concerned by the result.
It was just natural, therefore, that at the moment when the boy entered the smoking compartment of the train, the conversation of the men assembled there should be chiefly concerned with these twin sports. As he came in, there was a hum of voices, a sound of argument, and then he could see the hearty47 red-faced man — the politician — shaking his head dubiously48 and heard him say, with a protesting laugh:
“Ah-h, I don’t know about that. From what I hear it’s just the other way. I was talking to a man from Tennessee the other day, and from what he says, Cox is gaining everywhere. He said that a month ago he wouldn’t have given two cents for his chances, but now he thinks he’s going to carry the State.”
“It’s going to be close,” another conceded. “He may win yet — but it looks to me as if he’s got a hard uphill fight on his hands. Tennessee always polls a big Republican vote — in some of those mountain districts they vote two to one Republican — and this year it looks as if they’re all set for a change. . . . What do you think about it, Emmet?” he said, appealing to the small, swarthy and important-looking little man, who sat there, swinging his short little legs and chewing on a fat cigar with an air of wise reflection.
“Well,” that person answered slowly after a thoughtful moment, taking his cigar in his pudgy fingers and looking at it studiously — “it may be-it may be-that the country’s ready for a change — now don’t misunderstand me,” he went on hastily, as if eager to set their perturbed49 minds at rest —“I’m not saying that I want to see Harding elected — that I’m going to cast my vote for him — as you know, I’m a party man and have voted the Democratic ticket ever since I came of age — but,” again he paused, frowned importantly at his cigar, and spoke with careful deliberation —“it may just be that we are due for a change this year — that the country is ready for it — that we need it. . . . Now, I supported Wilson twice, in 1912, when he got elected to his first term of office, and again in 1916 —”
“The time he kept us out of war,” some one said ironically.
“And,” the little man said deliberately51 —“if he was running again — if he was well enough to run — if he wanted a third term —(although I’m against the third term in principle),” he amended52 hastily again —“why, I believe I’d go ahead and vote for him. That’s how much I think of him. But,” again he paused, and meditated53 his chewed cigar profoundly —“it may be we’re due now for a change. Wilson was a great president — in my opinion, the greatest man we’ve had since Lincoln — I don’t believe any other man could have done the job he did as well as he — BUT,” the word came out impressively, “the job is done! The war is over —”
“Yes, thank God!” some one murmured softly but fervently55.
“The people want to forget about the war — they want to forget all their sacrifices and suffering —” said this little man who had sacrificed and suffered nothing —“they are looking forward to better times. . . . And in my opinion,” he spoke again with his air of slow deliberation, important carefulness —“in my opinion, better times are before us. I think that after this election we are going to witness one of the greatest periods of national development and expansion that the world has ever known. . . . Why, we haven’t begun yet! We haven’t even started!” he cried suddenly, with a note of passionate56 conviction in his voice —“Do you realize that this country is only a little more than a hundred years old? Why, we haven’t even begun to show what we can do yet! We’ve spent all that time in getting started — in building cities — settling the country — building railroads and factories — developing the means of production — making the tools with which to work. . . . The resources of this country are scarcely tapped as yet. And in my opinion we are on the eve of the greatest period of prosperity and growth the world has ever known. . . . Look at Altamont, for example,” he went on cogently57. “Ten years ago, in 1910, the census58 gave us a population of 18,000. . . . Now, we have thirty, according to government figures, and that doesn’t begin to take the whole thing in: it doesn’t take in Biltburn, Lunn’s Cove59, Beaver60 Hills, Sunset Parkway — a dozen other places I can mention, all really part of the town but not included in the census figures. . . . If all the suburbs were included we’d have a population of at least 40,000 inhabitants —”
“I’d call it nearer fifty,” said another patriot61.
“And within another ten years we’ll go to seventy-five, perhaps a hundred. . . . Why, that town hasn’t begun to grow yet!” he said, bending his short body forward in his enthusiasm and tapping his fat knee —“It has been less than eight years since we established the Citizen’s Bank and Trust Company with a capital of $25,000 and capital stock at $100 a share. . . . Now,” he paused a moment, and looked around him, his swarthy face packed with strong conviction — “NOW, we have a capital of $2,000,000 — deposits totalling more than $18,000,000 — and as for the stock —” for a moment the little man’s swarthy face was touched with a faint complacent62 smile, he said smugly, “I don’t know exactly how much stock you gentlemen may hold among you, but if any of you wants to sell what he has, I will pay you $1000 a share — here and now,” he slapped a fat small hand down upon a fat small knee —“here and now! for every share you own.”
And he looked at them steadily63 for a moment with an air of challenge.
“Not for mine!” the florid heavy man cried heartily64. “No, sir! I’ve only got ten shares, Emmet, but you can’t buy it from me at any price! I won’t sell!”
And the swarthy little man, pleased by the answer, smiled complacently65 about him before he spoke again.
“Yes, sir!” he said. “That’s the way it is. And the thing that’s begun to happen at home already is going to happen everywhere — all over the country. From now on you’re going to see a period of rising prices and high wages — increased production, a boom in real estate, stocks, investments, business of all kinds — rising values everywhere such as you never saw before and never hoped to see.”
“And where is it going to stop?”
“Stop!” the swarthy little man spoke almost curtly67, and then barked, “It’s not going to stop! Not during OUR lifetime, anyway! I tell you, man, we’re just beginning! How can there be any talk of stopping when we haven’t STARTED yet? . . . There’s been nothing like it before,” he cried with passionate earnestness — “nothing to match it in the history of the world. We’ve had wars, booms, good times, hard times, slumps68, periods of prosperity — but, I tell you, gentlemen!” and here he smote69 himself sharply on the knee and his voice rose with the strength of an unshakable conviction —“this thing is different! We have reached a stage in our development that no other country in the world has ever known — that was never dreamed of before — a stage that is beyond booms, depressions, good times, hard times — anything —”
“You mean that after this we shall never be affected70 by those things?”
“Yes, sir!” he cried emphatically. “I mean just that! I mean that we have learned the causes for each of those conditions. I mean that we have learned how to check them, how to control them. I mean that so far as we are concerned they don’t EXIST any more!” His voice had become almost shrill72 with the force of his persuasive73 argument, and suddenly whipping a sheaf of envelopes, tied with a rubber band, out of his inner pocket, and gripping a stub of pencil in his stubby hand, he crossed his short fat legs with an energetic movement, bent74 forward poised75 above the envelopes, and said quietly but urgently:
“See here, now! — I’d like to show you a few figures! My business, as you know, is to look after other people’s money — your money, the town’s money, everybody’s money — I’ve got to keep my fingers on the pulse of business at every moment of the day — my business is to KNOW— to KNOW— and let me tell you something,” he said quietly, looking directly in their eyes, “I DO know — so pay attention just a moment while I show these figures to you.”
And for some moments he spoke quietly, persuasively76, his dark features packed with an energy of powerful conviction, while he rapidly jotted77 figures down upon the backs of the soiled envelopes, and they bent around him — their medicine-man of magic numerals — in an attitude of awed78 and rapt attentiveness79. And when he had finished, there was silence for a moment, save for the rhythmic80 clack of wheels, the rocketing sound of the great train. Then one of the men, stroking his chin thoughtfully, and with an impressed air, said:
“I see. . . . And you think, then, that in view of these conditions it would be better for the country if Harding is elected.”
The little man’s manner became instantly cautious, non-committal, “conservative”:
“I don’t say that,” he said, shaking his head in a movement of denial —“I only say that whoever gets elected we’re in for a period of unparalleled development. . . . Now both of them are good men — as I say, I shall probably vote for Cox — but you can rest assured,” he spoke deliberately and looked around him in his compelling way — “you can rest assured that no matter which one gets elected the country will be in good hands. There’s no question about that.”
“Yes, sir,” said the florid-faced politician in his amiable81 and hearty way. “I agree with you. . . . I’m a Democrat50 myself, both in practice and in principle. I’m going to vote for Cox, but if Harding gets elected I won’t shed any tears over his election. We’ll have to give the Republicans credit for a good deed this time — they couldn’t have made a wiser or a better decision. He has a long and honourable82 career in the service of his country,”— as he spoke his voice unconsciously took on the sententious ring and lilt of the professional politician —“no breath of scandal has ever touched his name: in public and in private life he has remained as he began — a statesman loyal to the institutions of his country, a husband devoted83 to his family life, a plain American of simple tastes who loves his neighbours as himself, and prefers the quiet life of a little town, the democracy of the front porch, to the marble arches of the Capitol — so, whatever the result may be,” the orator84 concluded, “this nation need fear nothing: it has chosen well and wisely in both cases, its future is secure.”
Mr. Flood, during the course of this impassioned flight, had remained ponderously86 unmoved. In the pause that followed, he sat impassively, his coarse-jowled face and bulging yellowed eyes fixed on the orator in their customary expression of comic stupefaction. Now, breathing hoarsely88 and stertorously89, he coughed chokingly and with an alarming rattling90 noise into his handkerchief, peered intently at his wadded handkerchief for a moment, and then said coarsely:
“Hell! What all of you are saying is that you are goin’ to vote for Cox but that you hope that Harding wins.”
“No, now, Jim —” the politician, Mr. Candler, said in a protesting tone —“I never said —”
“Yes, you did!” Mr. Flood wheezed91 bluntly. “You meant it, anyhow, every one of you is sayin’ how he always was a Democrat and what a great man Wilson is, and how he’s goin’ to vote for Cox — and every God-damn one of you is praying that the other feller gets elected. . . . Why? I’ll tell you why,” he wheezed coarsely, “— it’s because we’re sick an’ tired of Woodrow, all of us — we want to put the rollers under him an’ see the last of him! Oh, yes, we are,” he went on brutally as some one started to protest —“we’re tired of Woodrow’s flowery speeches, an’ we’re tired of hearin’ about wars an’ ideals an’ democracy an’ how fine an’ noble we all are an’ ‘Mister won’t you please subscribe93?’ We’re tired of hearin’ bunk94 that doesn’t pay an’ we want to hear some bunk that does — an’ we’re goin’ to vote for the crook95 that gives it to us. . . . Do you know what we all want — what we’re lookin’ for?” he demanded, glowering96 brutally around at them. “We want a piece of the breast with lots of gravy97 — an’ the boy that promises us the most is the one we’re for! . . . Cox! Hell! All of you know Cox has no more chance of getting in than a snowball has in hell. When they get through with him he won’t know whether he was run over by a five-ton truck or chewed up in a sausage mill. . . . Nothing has changed, the world’s no different, we’re just the same as we always were — and I’ve watched ’em come an’ go for forty years — Blaine, Cleveland, Taft, McKinley, Roosevelt — the whole damned lot of ’em-an’ what we want from them is just the same: all we can get for ourselves, a free grab with no holts barred, and to hell with the other fellow.”
“So whom are you going to vote for, Jim?” said Mr. Candler smiling.
“Who? Me?” said Mr. Flood with a coarse grin. “Why, hell, you ought to know that without asking. Me — I’m a Democrat, ain’t I? — don’t I publish a Democratic newspaper? I’m going to vote for Cox, of course.”
And, in the burst of laughter that followed, some one could be heard saying jestingly:
“And who’s going to win the Series, Jim? Some one told me you’re for Brooklyn!”
“Brooklyn!” Mr. Flood jeered98 wheezingly99. “Brooklyn has just the same kind of chance Cox has — the chance a snowball has in hell! Brooklyn! They’re in just the same fix the Democrats101 are in- they’ve got nothing on the ball. When Speaker and that Cleveland gang get through with them, Brooklyn is going to look just like Cox the day after the election. Brooklyn,” he concluded with brutal33 conviction, “hasn’t got a chance.”
And again the debate between the men grew eager, animated102 and vociferous103: they shouted, laughed, denied, debated, jeered good-naturedly, and the great train hurtled onward104 in the darkness, and the everlasting earth was still.
And other men, and other voices, words, and moments such as these would come, would pass, would vanish and would be forgotten in the huge record and abyss of time. And the great trains of America would hurtle on through darkness over the lonely, everlasting earth — the earth which only was eternal — and on which our fathers and our brothers had wandered, their lives so brief, so lonely, and so strange — into whose substance at length they all would be compacted. And the great trains would hurtle on for ever over the silent and eternal earth — fixed in that design of everlasting stillness and unceasing change. The trains would hurtle onward bearing other lives like these, all brought together for an instant between two points of time — and then all lost, all vanished, broken and forgotten. The trains would bear them onward to their million destinations — each to the fortune, fame, or happiness he wished, whatever it was that he was looking for — but whether any to a sure success, a certain purpose, or the thing he sought — what man could say? All that he knew was that these men, these words, this moment would vanish, be forgotten — and that great wheels would hurtle on for ever. And the earth be still.
Mr. Flood shifted his gouty weight carefully with a movement of his fat arm, grunting106 painfully as he did so. This delicate operation completed, he stared sharply and intently at the boy again and at length said bluntly:
“You’re one of those Gant boys, ain’t you? Ain’t you Ben’s brother?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered. “That’s right.”
“Which one are you?” Mr. Flood said with this same brutal directness. “You ain’t the one that stutters, are you?”
“No,” one of the other men interrupted with a laugh, but in a decided107 tone. “He’s not the one. You’re thinking of Luke.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Flood stupidly. “Is Luke the one that stutters?”
“Yes,” the boy said, “that’s Luke. I’m Eugene.”
“Oh,” Mr. Flood said heavily. “I reckon you’re the youngest one.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered.
“Well,” said Mr. Flood with an air of finality, “I didn’t know which one you were, but I knew you were one of them. I knew I’d seen you somewhere.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered. He was about to go on, hesitated for a moment, and suddenly blurted108 out: “I used to carry a route on The Courier when you owned it. I guess that’s how you remembered me.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Flood stupidly, “you did? Yes, that’s it, all right. I remember now.” And he continued to look at the boy with his bulging stare of comic stupefaction and for a moment there was silence save for the pounding of the wheels upon the rail.
“How many of you boys are there?” The swarthy and important-looking man who had previously109 been addressed as Emmet now spoke curiously110: “There must be five or six in all.”
“No,” the boy said, “there’s only three now. There’s Luke and Steve and me.”
“Oh, Steve, Steve,” the little man said with an air of crisp finality, as if this was the name that had been at the tip of his tongue all the time. “Steve was the oldest, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy.
“Whatever became of Steve, anyway?” the man said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him in ten or fifteen years. He doesn’t live at home any more, does he?”
“No, sir,” the boy said. “He lives in Indiana.”
“Does he for a fact?” said the little man, as if this was a rare and curious bit of information. “What’s Steve doing out there? Is he in business?”
For a moment the boy was going to say, “No, he runs a pool room and lives up over it with his wife and children,” but feeling ashamed to say this, he said:
“I think he runs some kind of cigar store out there.”
“Is that so?” the man answered with an air of great interest. “Well,” he went on in a moment in a conciliatory tone, “Steve was always smart enough. He had brains enough to do almost anything if he tried.”
Emmet Wade111, the man who had asked the boy all these questions, was a quick, pompous112 little figure, corpulently built, but so short in stature113 as to be almost dwarfish-looking. His skin was curiously and unpleasantly swarthy, and save for a fringe of thin black hair at either side, his head was completely bald. In that squat114 figure, the suggestion of pompous authority and mountainous conceit115 was so pronounced that even in repose, as now, the whole man seemed to strut116. He was, by virtue117 of that fortuitous chance and opportunity which has put so many small men in great positions, the president of the leading bank of the community. Even as he sat there in the smoking compartment, with his short fat legs crossed, the boy could see him sitting at his desk in the bank, swinging back and forth118 in his swivel chair thoughtfully, his pudgy hands folded behind his head as he dictated119 a letter to his obsequious120 secretary.
“Where’s old Luke? What’s he doing, anyway?” another of the men demanded suddenly, beginning to chuckle121 even as he spoke. The speaker was the florid-faced, somewhat countrified-looking man already noted122, who wore the string neck-tie and spoke with the rhetorical severity of the small-town politician. He was one of the town commissioners123 and in his hearty voice and easy manner there was a more genial124 quality than any of the others had. “I haven’t seen that boy in years,” he continued. “Some one was asking me just the other day what had become of him.”
“He’s got a job selling farm machinery125 and lighting126 equipment,” the boy answered.
“Is that so?” the man replied with this same air of friendly interest. “Where is he located? He doesn’t get home very often, does he?”
“No, sir,” the boy said, “not very often. He comes in every two or three weeks, but he doesn’t stay home long at a time. His territory is down through South Carolina and Georgia — all through there.”
“What did you say he was selling?” said Mr. Flood, who had been staring at the boy fixedly127 during all this conversation with his heavy expression of a slow, intent and brutal stupefaction.
“He sells lighting systems and pumps and farm equipment and machinery — for farms,” the boy said awkwardly.
“That’s Luke — who does that?” said Mr. Flood after a moment, when this information had had time to penetrate128.
“Yes, sir. That’s Luke.”
“And he’s the one that stutters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one that used to have the agency for The Saturday Evening Post and did all that talking when he sold ’em to you?”
“Yes, sir. That’s Luke.”
“And what d’you say he’s doing now?” said Mr. Flood heavily. “Selling farm machinery?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what he’s doing.”
“Then, by God,” said Mr. Flood, with a sudden and explosive emphasis which, after his former attitude of heavy, brutal stupefaction, was startling, “he’ll do it!” The other men laughed and Mr. Flood shook his ponderous85, crimson129 head slowly from side to side to emphasize his conviction in the matter.
“If any one can sell ’em, he’ll do it,” he said positively131. “That boy could sell Palm Beach suits to the Esquimaux. They’d have to buy ’em just to keep him from talking them to death.”
“I’ll tell you what I saw him do one time,” said the politician, shifting his weight a little in order to accommodate himself more comfortably to the motion of the train. “I was standing132 in front of the post office one day talking to Dave Redmond about some property he owned out on the Haw Creek133 Road — oh, it must have been almost fifteen years ago — when here he comes hustling134 along, you know, with a big bundle of his papers under his arm. Well, he sails right into us, talking about a mile a minute and going so fast neither of us had a chance to get a word in edgeways. ‘Here you are, gentlemen,’ he says, ‘hot off the press, just the thing you’ve been waiting for, this week’s edition of The Saturday Evening Post, five cents, only a nickel, the twentieth part of a dollar.’ By that time,” said Mr. Candler, “he had the thing all opened up and shoved up right under Dave Redmond’s nose, and he was turning the pages and telling him all about the different pieces it had in it and who wrote them and what was in them, and what a bargain it was for five cents. ‘W-w-w-why,’ he says, ‘if you b-b-b-bought it in a book, why it’d cost you a d-d-d-dollar and a half and then,’ he says, ‘it wouldn’t be half as good.’ Well, Dave was getting sort of red in the face by that time,” Mr. Candler said, “and I could see he was sort of annoyed at being interrupted, but the boy kept right on with his spiel and wouldn’t give up. ‘I don’t want it,’ says Dave, ‘I’m busy,’ and he tries to turn away from him, but Luke moves right around to the other side and goes after him about twice as hard as before. ‘Go on, go on,’ says Dave. ‘We’re busy! I don’t want it! I can’t read!’ he says. ‘All right,’ says Luke, ‘then you can look at the p-p-p-pictures. Why, the pictures alone,’ he says, ‘are w-w-w-worth a half a dollar. It’s the b-b-b-bargain of a lifetime,’ he says. Well, the boy was pressing him pretty hard and I guess Dave lost his temper. He sort of knocked the magazine away from him and shouted, ‘Damn it, I told you that I didn’t want it, and I mean it! Now go on! We’re busy.’ Well,” said Mr. Candler, “Luke didn’t say a word for a moment. He took his magazine and put it under his arm again, and he just stood there looking at Dave Redmond for a moment, and then he said, just as quiet as you please, ‘All right, sir. You’re the doctor. But I think you’re going to regret it!’ And then he turned and walked away from us. Well, sir,” said Mr. Candler, laughing, “Dave Redmond’s face was a study. You could see he felt pretty small to think he had shouted at the boy like that, and acted as he did. And Luke hadn’t gone twenty feet before Dave Redmond called him back. ‘Here, son,’ he says, diving his hand down into his pocket, ‘give me one of those things! I may never read it but it’s worth a dollar just to hear you talk.’ And he gave him a dollar, too, and made him take it,” Mr. Candler said, “and from that day on Dave Redmond was one of the biggest boosters that Luke had. . . . ‘I think you’re going to regret it,’” said Mr. Candler again, laughing at the memory. “That’s the thing that did it — that’s what got him — the way the boy just looked at him and said, ‘All right, sir, but I think you’re going to regret it.’ That did the trick, all right.” And pleased with his story and the memory it evoked136, Mr. Candler looked mildly out of the window for a moment, smiling.
“That was Luke that done that?” Mr. Flood demanded hoarsely after a moment, with his air of brutal and rather stunned137 surprise. “The one that stutters?”
“Yes, that’s the one all right,” said Mr. Candler. “That’s who it was.”
Mr. Flood pondered this information for a moment with his bulging eyes still fastened on Mr. Candler in their look of stupefied curiosity. Then, as the full import of what he had heard at length soaked into his intelligence, he shook his great coarse head once, slowly, in a movement of ponderous but emphatic71 satisfaction, and said with hoarse87 conviction:
“Well, he’s a good ’un! If any one can sell ’em, he’s the one.”
This judgment138 was followed by a brief but heavy pause, which was broken in a moment by the voice of the pompous, swarthy little man who, in a tone of detached curiosity, said:
“Whatever became of that other boy — the one who used to work there in The Courier office when you owned it? What was his name, anyway?”
“Ben,” said Mr. Flood heavily, but without hesitation139. “That was Ben.” Here he coughed in an alarming, phlegmy sort of way, cleared his throat and spat140 chokingly into the spittoon at his feet, wiped his mouth with his wadded handkerchief and in a moment, panting for breath, wheezed:
“Ben was the one that worked for me.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” the swarthy little man said rapidly, as if now it all came back to him. “Ben! That was the one! Whatever became of him? I haven’t seen him recently.”
“He’s dead,” said Mr. Flood, still wheezing100 rapidly for breath and gazing at the spittoon. “That’s the reason you haven’t seen him,” he said seriously. And suddenly, as if the long-awaited moment had come, he bent over, torn by a fit of choking and phlegmy sounds of really astounding141 proportions. When it was over, he raised himself, settled back slowly and painfully in his seat, and for a moment, with closed eyes, did nothing but wheeze92 rapidly. In a moment, still with closed eyes, he gasped142 almost inaudibly:
“Ben was the one that died.”
“Oh, yes! I do remember now,” the pompous little man declared, nodding his head sharply with an air of conviction. “That’s been some time ago, hasn’t it?” he said to the boy.
“He died two years ago,” the boy replied, “during the war.”
“Oh, that’s so, he did! I remember now!” the man cried instantly, with an air of recollection that somehow said that he remembered nothing. “He was overseas at the time, wasn’t he?” he asked smoothly143.
“No, sir,” the boy answered. “He was at home. He died of pneumonia144 — during that big epidemic145.”
“I know,” the man said regretfully. “That got a lot of the boys. Ben was in service at the time, wasn’t he?”
“No,” the boy answered. “He never got in. Luke was the one who was in service. Ben tried to get in twice but he couldn’t pass the examinations.”
“Is that so?” the man said vaguely146. “Well, I was mighty147 sorry to hear about his death. Old Ben was one fine boy!”
Nothing was said for a moment.
“I’ll tell you how fine he was,” Mr. Flood, who had been wheezing with closed eyes, now grunted148 suddenly, glaring solemnly about him with an air of brutal earnestness. “Now I think I knew that boy about as well as any man alive — he worked for me for almost fifteen years — started out when he was ten years old as a route-boy on The Courier and kept right on working for my paper until just a year or two before he died! And I’m here to tell you,” he wheezed solemnly, “that they don’t come any better than Ben!” Here he glowered149 around him pugnaciously150 as if the character of a dead saint had been called in question. “Now he wasn’t one of your big talkers who’d promise everything and know nothing. Ben was a do-er, not a talker. You could depend on him,” said Mr. Flood, hoarsely and impressively. “When he told you he’d do a thing, you’d know it was going to get done! As regular as a clock and as steady as the day is long! And as quiet a fellow as you ever saw,” said Mr. Flood. “That was Ben for you! Am I right?” he demanded, suddenly turning to the boy. “Was that Ben?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered. “That was Ben.”
“And until you asked him something he’d go for days at a time without speaking to you, but I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, it was just his way. He believed in tending to his own business and he expected every one else to do the same.” And for a moment, exhausted151 by these eulogies152, he wheezed rapidly.
“Well, the world would be a lot better off if there were more like him,” the pompous, swarthy little man now said virtuously153, as if this sentiment expressed his own pious154 belief and practice. “There are too many people sticking their noses in other people’s business, as it is.”
“Well, they didn’t stick their noses in Ben’s business,” said Mr. Flood with grim emphasis, “not after the first time, anyway. But they didn’t come any better than that boy. I couldn’t have thought more of him if he’d been my own son,” he concluded piously155 and then gasped stertorously, lifted his cigar slowly to his lips with the thick, gouty tenderness that characterized all his movements and for a moment puffed156 slowly, wheezing reflectively over it.
“Not that he was ever much like a boy,” he grunted suddenly, with a surprising flash of insight. “He was always more like an old man — didn’t ever seem to be a kid like the others. Why,” suddenly he chuckled158 with a phlegmy hoarseness159, “I remember when he first began to come down there in the morning as a carrier, the other kids all called him ‘Pop.’ That was Ben for you. Always had that scowl160 on his face, even when he was laughing — as serious and earnest as an old man. But he was one of the best — as good as they come.” Again he coughed chokingly, bent over with a painful grunt105, and cleared his throat phlegmily into the polished brass161 spittoon beside him. Then, wheezing a little, he drew the wadded silk handkerchief from a side-pocket, wiped his mouth with it, raised himself up in his seat a little, and settled back slowly, tenderly, wheezing, with a sigh! Then for a moment he laboured painfully, eyes closed, with his rapid wheezing breath and finally, when it seemed he must be exhausted by his efforts and done with conversation for the evening, he wheezed faintly and unexpectedly.
“That was Ben.”
“Oh, I remember that boy now,” the swarthy pompous-looking man suddenly broke in with a flash of recollective inspiration —“Wasn’t Ben the boy who used to stand in the windows of The Courier offices when the World Series was being played, and post the score up on the score-board as they phoned it in to him?”
“Yes,” wheezed Mr. Flood, nodding heavily. “You got him now, all right. That was Ben.”
“I remember now,” the swarthy little man said thoughtfully, with a far-away look in his eye. “I was thinking about him the other day when I went by The Courier office. They were playing the Series then. They had another fellow in the window and I wondered what had become of him. So that was Ben?”
“Yes,” Mr. Flood wheezed hoarsely again. “That was Ben.”
For a moment as the gouty old rake had spoken of the boy’s dead brother, the boy had felt within him a sense of warmth: a wakening of dead time, a stir of grateful affection for the gross old man as if there might have been in this bloated carcass some trace of understanding for the dead boy of whom he spoke — an understanding faint and groping as a dog who bays the moon might have of the sidereal162 universe, and yet genuine and recognizable.
And for a moment present time fades out and the boy sits there staring blindly out at the dark earth that strokes for ever past the train, and now he has the watch out and feels it in his hands. . . . And suddenly Ben is standing there before his vision, smoking, and scowls163 down through the window of the office at the boy.
He jerks his head in a peremptory164 gesture: the boy, obedient to his brother’s command, enters the office and stands there waiting at the counter. Ben steps down from the platform in the window, puts the earphones on a table and walks over to the place where the boy is standing. For a moment, scowling165 fiercely, he stands there looking at the boy across the counter. The scowl deepens, he makes a sudden threatening gesture of his hard white hand as if to strike the boy, but instead he reaches across the counter quickly, seizes the boy by the shoulders, pulls him closer, and with rough but skilful166 fingers tugs167, pulls and jerks the frayed168 string of neck-tie which the boy is wearing into a more orderly and presentable shape.
The boy starts to go.
“Wait!” says Ben, quietly, in a deliberately off-hand kind of tone. He opens a drawer below the counter, takes out a small square package, and scowling irritably169, and without looking at the boy, he thrusts it at him. “Here’s something for you,” he says, and walks away.
“What is it?” The boy takes the package and examines it with a queer numb170 sense of expectancy171 and growing joy.
“Why don’t you open it and see?” Ben says, his back still turned, and scowling down into a paper on the desk.
“Open it?” the boy says, staring at him stupidly.
“Yes, open it, fool!” Ben snarls172. “It’s not going to bite you!”
While the boy fumbles173 with the cords that tie the package, Ben prowls over toward the counter with his curious, loping, pigeon-toed stride, leans on it with his elbows and, scowling, begins to look up and down the ‘want-ad.’ columns, while blue, pungent174 smoke coils slowly from his nostrils175. By this time, the boy has taken off the outer wrapping of the package, and is holding a small case, beautifully heavy, of sumptuous176 blue velvet177, in his hands.
“Well, did you look at it?” Ben says, still scowling up and down the ‘want-ads.’ of the paper, without looking at the boy.
The boy finds the spring and presses it, the top opens, inside upon its rich cushion of white satin is a gold watch, and a fine gold chain. It is a miracle of design, almost as thin and delicate as a wafer. The boy stares at it with bulging eyes and in a moment stammers178:
“It’s — it’s a watch!”
“Does it look like an alarm clock?” Ben jeers179 quietly, as he turns a page and begins to scowl up and down the advertisements of another column.
“It’s — for me?” the boy says thickly, slowly, as he stares at it.
“No,” Ben says, “it’s for Napoleon Bonaparte, of course! . . . You little idiot! Don’t you know what day this is? Have I got to do all the thinking for you? Don’t you ever use your head for anything except a hat-rack? . . . Well,” he goes on quietly in a moment, still looking at his paper, “what do you think of it? . . . There’s a spring in the back that opens up,” he goes on casually180, “Why don’t you look at it?”
The boy turns the watch over, feels the smooth golden surface of that shining wafer, finds the spring, and opens it. The back of the watch springs out, upon the inner surface is engraved181, in delicate small words, this inscription182:
“To Eugene Gant
Presented To Him On His Twelfth Birthday
By His Brother
B. H. Gant
October 3, 1912”
“Well,” Ben says quietly in a moment. “Did you read what it says?”
“I’d just like to say —” the boy begins in a thick, strange voice, staring blindly down at the still open watch.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Ben says, lifting his scowling head in the direction of his unknown demon26, and jerking his head derisively183 towards the boy. “Listen to this, won’t you? . . . Now, for God’s sake, try to take good care of it and don’t abuse it!” he says quickly and irritably. “You’ve got to look after a watch the same as anything else. Old man Enderby”— this is the name of the jeweller from whom he has bought the watch —“told me that a watch like that was good for fifty years, if you take care of it. . . . You know,” he goes on quietly, insultingly, “you’re not supposed to drive nails with it or use it for a hammer. You know that, don’t you?” he says, and for the first time turns and looks quietly at the boy. “Do you know what a watch is for?”
“Yes.”
“What is it for?”
“To keep time with,” says the boy.
Ben says nothing for a moment, but looks at him.
“Yes,” he says quietly at length, with all the bitter weariness of a fathomless184 resignation and despair, the infinite revulsion, scorn, disgust which life has caused in him. “That’s it. That’s what it’s for. To keep time with.” The weary irony185 in his voice had deepened to a note of passionate despair. “And I hope to God you keep it better than the rest of us! Better than Mama or the old man — better than me! God help you if you don’t! . . . Now go on home,” he says quietly in a moment, “before I kill you.”
“To keep time with!”
What is this dream of time, this strange and bitter miracle of living? Is it the wind that drives the leaves down bare paths fleeing? Is it the storm-wild flight of furious days, the storm-swift passing of the million faces, all lost, forgotten, vanished as a dream? Is it the wind that howls above the earth, is it the wind that drives all things before its lash157, is it the wind that drives all men like dead ghosts fleeing? Is it the one red leaf that strains there on the bough135 and that for ever will be fleeing? All things are lost and broken in the wind; the dry leaves scamper186 down the path before us, in their swift-winged dance of death the dead souls flee along before us driven with rusty187 scuffle before the fury of the demented wind. And October has come again, has come again.
What is this strange and bitter miracle of life? Is it to feel, when furious day is done, the evening hush188, the sorrow of lost, fading light, far sounds and broken cries, and footsteps, voices, music, and all lost — and something murmurous189, immense and mighty in the air?
And we have walked the pavements of a little town and known the passages of barren night, and heard the wheel, the whistle and the tolling190 bell, and lain in the darkness waiting, giving to silence the huge prayer of our intolerable desire. And we have heard the sorrowful silence of the river in October — and what is there to say? October has come again, has come again, and this world, this life, this time are stranger than a dream.
May it not be that some day from this dream of time, this chronicle of smoke, this strange and bitter miracle of life in which we are the moving and phantasmal figures, we shall wake? Knowing our father’s voice upon the porch again, the flowers, the grape-vines, the low rich moons of waning191 August, and the tolling bell — and instantly to know we live, that we have dreamed and have awakened192, and find then in our hands some object, like this real and palpable, some gift out of the lost land and the unknown world as token that it was no dream — that we have really been there? And there is no more to say.
For now October has come back again, the strange and lonely month comes back again, and you will not return.
Up on the mountain, down in the valley, deep, deep, in the hill, Ben — cold, cold, cold.
“To keep time with!”
And suddenly the scene, the shapes, the voices of the men about him swam back into their focus, and he could hear the rhythmed pounding of the wheels below him, and in his palm the frail-numbered visage of the watch stared blank and plain at him its legend. It was one minute after twelve o’clock, Sunday morning, October the third, 1920, and he was hurtling across Virginia, and this world, this life, this time were stranger than a dream.
The train had halted for a moment at one of the Virginia towns, and for a moment the people were conscious of the strange yet casual familiarity of all those sounds which suddenly will intercept194 the rhythmic spell of time and memory which a journey in a train can cast upon its passengers. Suddenly this spell was broken by the intrusion of peculiar195 things — of sounds and voices — the sense of instant recognition, union to a town, a life which they had never known, but with which they now felt immediately familiar. A railwayman was coming swiftly down the station platform beneath the windows of the train, pausing from time to time to hammer on the car-wheels of each truck. A negro toiled196 past below them with a heavy rattling truck in tow, piled high with baggage.
And elsewhere there were the casual voices of the railwaymen — conductors, porters, baggage masters, station men — greeting each other with friendly words, without surprise, speaking of weather, work, plans for the future, saying farewell in the same way. Then the bell tolled197, the whistle blew, the slow panting of the engine came back to them, the train was again in motion; the station, and the station lights, a glimpse of streets, the thrilling, haunting, white-glazed incandescence198 of a cotton mill at night, the hard last lights of town, slid past the windows of the train. The train was in full speed now, and they were rushing on across the dark and lonely earth again.
Then one of the men in the compartment, the politician, who had been looking curiously out of the window at this town and station scene, turned and spoke with a casual interest to the boy:
“Your father’s in Baltimore now, isn’t he, son?” he said.
“Yes, sir. He’s at Hopkins. Luke’s up there with him.”
“Well, I thought I read something in the paper a week or two back about his being there,” said the man with the florid face.
“What’s wrong with him?” Mr. Flood demanded coarsely in a moment, after he had absorbed this information. “Ain’t he feeling good?”
The boy shifted nervously in his seat before he answered. His father was dying of cancer, but for some reason it did not seem possible or proper for him to say this to these men. He said:
“He’s got some kind of kidney trouble, I think. He goes up there for radium treatments.”
“It’s the same thing John Rankin had,” the florid-faced man glibly199 interposed at this moment. “Some sort of prostate trouble, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes, sir, that’s it,” the boy said. For some reason he felt a sense of relief and gratefulness towards the man with the florid face. The easy, glib200 and false assurance that his father’s “trouble” was “the same thing John Rankin had” seemed to give the disease a respectable standing and to divest201 the cancer of its fatal, shameful202 and putrescent horror.
“I know what it is,” the florid-faced man was saying, nodding his head in a confident manner. “It’s the same thing John Rankin had. A lot of men get it after they’re fifty. John told me he went through agony with it for ten years. Said he used to be up with it a dozen times a night. It got so he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t rest, he couldn’t do anything but walk the floor with it. It got him down so that he was nothing but skin and bones, he was walking around like a dead man. Then he went up there and had that operation and he’s been a new man ever since. He looks better than he’s looked in twenty years. I was talking to him the other day and he told me he didn’t have an ache or a pain in the world. He said he was going to live to be a hundred and he looked it — the picture of health.
“Well,” he said in a friendly tone, now turning to the boy, “remember me to your father when you see him. Tell him Frank Candler asked to be remembered to him.”
“Are you and him good friends?” Mr. Flood demanded heavily, after another staring pause, with the brutal, patient, and somehow formidable curiosity which belonged to him. “You know him well?”
“Who? Mr. Gant?” Mr. Candler cried with the hearty geniality203 of the politician, which seemed to suggest he knew the man so well that the very question was amusing to him. “Why, I’ve known him all my life — I’ve known him ever since he first came to Altamont — let’s see, that’s all of forty years ago when he first came here?” Mr. Candler went on reflectively, “or no, maybe a little less than that. Wait a minute.” He considered seriously for a moment. “The first time I ever saw your father,” said Mr. Candler very slowly and impressively, with a frown on his face and not looking at any one, but staring straight before him, “was in October, 1882 — and I believe — I believe,” he said strongly, “that was the very year he came to town — yes, sir! I’m positive of it!” he cried. “For Altamont was nothing but a cross-roads village in those days — I don’t believe we had 2,000 people there — why, that’s all in the world it was.” Mr. Candler now interrupted himself heartily. “The courthouse up there on the square and a few stores around it — when you got two blocks away you were right out in the country. Didn’t Captain Bob Porter offer me three lots he owned down there on Pisgah Avenue, not a block from the square, for a thousand dollars, and didn’t I laugh at him to think he was fool enough to ask such a price as that and expect to get it! Why!” Mr. Candler declared, with a full countrified laugh, “it was nothing but a mud-hole down in the holler. I’ve seen old Captain Porter’s hawgs wallerin’ around in it many’s the time. ‘And you,’ I said to him, ‘you — do you think I’d pay you a price like that for a mud-hole? Why, you must think I’m crazy, sure enough.’ ‘All right,’ he says, ‘have it your own way, but you’ll live to see the day you’ll regret not buying it. You’ll live to see the day when you can’t buy ONE of those lots for a thousand dollars!’ ONE of them!” Mr. Candler now cried in hearty self-derision. “Why, if I owned one of those lots today, I’d be a rich man! I don’t believe you could buy a foot of that land today for less than a thousand dollars, could you, Bruce?” he said, addressing himself to the swarthy, pompous-looking man who sat beside the boy.
“Five thousand a front foot would come closer to it, I should think,” the pompous little man replied, with the crisp, brisk and almost strutting204 assurance that characterized all his words and gestures. He crossed and uncrossed his fat little legs briskly as he uttered these words and then sat there “all reared back” as the saying goes, unable even to reach the floor with his fat little legs, but smiling a complacent smile and simply exuding205 conceit and strutting self-satisfaction from every pore. “Yes, sir!” the swarthy little man continued, pompously206, “I should doubt very much if you could buy a foot of that property for less than $5,000 today!”
“Well,” said Mr. Candler with a satisfied air. “That’s what I thought! I knew it would be way up there somewheres. But I could have had the whole thing once for a thousand dollars. I’ve kicked myself in the seat of the pants a thousand times since to think what a fool I was for not taking it when I had the chance! I’d be a rich man today if I had! It just goes to show you, doesn’t it?” he concluded indefinitely.
“Yes, sir,” the pompous, swarthy little man replied, in his dry, briskly assured tones, “it goes to show that our hindsight is usually a great deal better than our foresight207!” And he glanced about him complacently, obviously pleased with his wit and convinced that he had said something remarkably208 pungent and original.
“It was about that time when I first met your father,” said Mr. Candler, turning to the boy again. “Along there in the fall of ‘82 — that’s when it was all right — and I don’t think he’d been in town then more than a month, for in a town that size, I’d have known if he’d been there longer. And yes, of course!” he cried sharply, struck by sudden recollection, “that very first day I saw him he was standing there in front of his shop with two nigger men, unloading some blocks of marble and granite209 and tombstones, I reckon, and moving them back into his shop. I guess he was just moving in at the time. He’d rented an old shack210 over there at the north-east corner of the square where the Sluder building is now. That’s where it was, all right. I was working for old man Weaver211 at the time — he had a grocery and general-goods store there opposite the old courthouse about where the Blue Ridge212 Coal and Ice Company is now. I was going back to work after dinner and had just turned the corner at the Square there from Academy Street when I saw your father. I remember stopping to watch him for a moment because there was something about his appearance — I don’t know what it was, but if you saw him once you’d never forget him — there was something about the way he looked and talked and worked that was different from any one I’d ever seen. Of course, he was an awful tall, big-boned, powerful-looking sort of man — how tall is your father, son?”
“He was about six feet five,” the boy answered, “but I guess he’s not that much now — he’s stooped over some since he got old.”
“Well, he didn’t stoop in those days,” said Mr. Candler. “He always carried himself as straight as an arrow. I noticed that. He was an awful big man — not that he had much weight on him — he was always lean and SKINNY like — but he LOOKED big — he had big bones — his FRAME was big!” cried Mr. Candler. “You’ll make a big man too when you fill out,” he continued, giving the boy an appraising213 look. “Of course, you look like your mother’s people, you’re a Pentland and they’re fleshy people, but you’ve got the old man’s frame. You may make a bigger man than he is when you put on weight and widen out — but it wasn’t that your father was so big — I think he looked bigger than he really was — it was something else about him — about the way he gave orders to the niggers and went about his work,” said Mr. Candler, in a rather puzzled tone. “I don’t know what it was, but I’d never seen any one like him before. For one thing he was dressed so good!” he said suddenly. “He always wore his good clothes when he worked — I’d never seen a man who did hard labour with his hands who dressed that way. Here he was, you know, sweating over those big blocks of stone with those two niggers and wearing better clothes than you and me would go to church in. Of course, he had his coat off, and his cuffs214 rolled back, and he was wearing one of those big striped aprons215 that go the whole way up across the shoulders — but you could see his clothes were GOOD,” said Mr. Candler. “Looked like black broadcloth that had been made by a tailor and wearing a BOILED shirt, mind you, and one of those wing collars with a black silk neck-tie — and not afraid to work, either! Why, the first thing I saw him do,” said Mr. Candler, laughing, “he let out a string of words at those niggers you could have heard from here to yonder because they were sweating and straining to get a big hunk of marble up on the rollers, that they hadn’t been able to budge216 an inch. ‘Merciful God,’ he says, that’s just the way he talked, you know —‘Merciful God! Has it come to this that I must do everything for myself while you stand there gloating at my agony? I could as soon look for help from a couple of God-damned wooden Indians! In the name of God, stand back. I’ll do it myself, sick and feeble as I am!’ Well,” said Mr. Candler, chuckling217 with the recollection, “with that he reaches down and gets a grip on that big hunk of stone and gives a heave and up she comes on to the rolling pins as nice and easy as anything you ever saw. Well, sir, you should have seen the look upon those niggers’ faces — I thought their eyes were going to pop out of their heads. And that’s the first time I ever spoke to him, you know. I can remember the very words I said. I said to him, ‘Well, if you call that being sick and feeble, most of the folks up in this part of the country are already dead and in their graves.’”
The man’s story had stirred in the boy’s mind a thousand living memories of his father. For a moment it seems to him that the lost world which these words evoked has never died, lives yet in all the radiant and enchanted218 colour of his childhood, in all its proud, dense219, and single fabric220 of passion, fury, certitude and joy. Every memory that the story brought to life is part of him. There are a thousand buried, nameless and forgotten lives, ten thousand strange and secret tongues alive now, urgent, swarming221 in his blood, and thronging222 at the gateways223 of his memory. They are the lives of the lost wilderness224, his mother’s people; they are the tongues, the faces of the secret land, the dark half of his heart’s desire, the fertile golden earth from which his father came.
He knows the farmer boy who stood beside the road and watched the dusty rebels marching past towards Gettysburg. He smells the sweet fragrance225 of that lavish226 countryside, he hears the oaths, the jests, the laughter of the marching soldiers, he hears the cricketing stitch of noon in drowsy227 fields, the myriad228 woodnotes, secret, green, and cool, the thrumming noises. He feels the brooding wait and murmur54 of hot afternoon, the trembling of the distant guns in the hot air, and the vast, oncoming hush and peace and silence of the dusk.
And then he is lying beside his father in the little gabled room upstairs. He is there beside his father and his father’s brothers in the darkness — waiting, silent, waiting — with an unspoken single question in their hearts. They are thinking of an older brother who that night is lying twelve miles away, shot through the lungs. He sees his father’s gaunt, long form in darkness, the big-boned hands, the gaunt, long face, the cold, green-grey, restless and weary eyes, so deep and untelling, so strangely lonely, and the slanting229, almost reptilian230 large formation of the skull231 that has, somehow, its own strange dignity — as of some one lost. And the great stars of America blaze over them, the vast and lonely earth broods round them, then as now, with its secret and mysterious presences, and then as now the million-noted ululation of the night throngs232 up from silence the song of all its savage, dark and measureless fecundity233. And he lies there in the darkness with his father and the brothers — silent, waiting — their cold, grey eyes turned upward to the loneliness of night, the blazing stars, having no words to say the thing they feel, the dream of time and the dark wonder of man’s destiny which has drenched234 with blood the old earth, the familiar wheat, and fused that day the image of immortal history in a sleepy country town twelve miles away.
He sees the gaunt figure of the stone-cutter coming across the square at his earth-devouring stride. He hears him muttering underneath235 his breath the mounting preludes236 of his huge invective237. He sees him striding on for ever, bent forward in his haste, wetting his thumb and clearing his throat with an infuriated and anticipatory238 relish239 as he comes. He sees him striding round the corner, racing up-hill towards the house, bearing huge packages of meat beneath his arm. He sees him take the high front steps four at a time, hasten like a hurricane into the house, lay down the meat upon the kitchen table, and then without a pause or introduction, comes the storm — fire, frenzy240, curses, woes241 and lamentations, and then news out of the streets, the morning’s joy, the smoking and abundant dinner.
A thousand memories of that life of constant and unresting fury brim in the boy’s mind in an instant. At this moment, with telescopic force, all of these memories of his father’s life become fused and blurred242 to one terrific image, in which it seems that the whole packed chronicle, from first to last, is perfectly243 comprised.
At the same moment the boy became conscious that the men were getting up around him, preparatory to departure, and that the florid-faced man, who had been speaking of his father, had laid his hand upon his shoulder in a friendly gesture, and was speaking to him.
“Good night, son,” the man was saying. “I’m getting off at Washington. If I don’t see you again, good luck to you. I suppose you’ll be getting off at Baltimore to see your father before you go on, won’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, sir,” the boy stammered244 confusedly, getting to his feet.
“Remember me to him, won’t you? Tell him you saw Frank Candler on the train and he sent his best regards.”
“Yes, sir — thank you — I will,” the boy said.
“All right. And good luck to you, boy,” the politician said, giving him his broad, fleshy and rather tender hand. “Give ’em hell when you get up there,” he said quietly, with a firm, friendly clasp and a good-natured wink245.
“Yes — I certainly will — thank you —” the boy stammered, flaming in the face, with a feeling of proud hope, and with affection for the man who had spoken to him.
Then the man had gone, but his words had brought back to the boy suddenly the knowledge that in the morning he was to see his father. And that knowledge instantly destroyed all the exultancy246 of flight and darkness, the incredible realization247 of his escape, the image of new lands, the new life, and the shining city that had been swelling in his spirit all night long. It had interposed its leaden face between him and this image of wild joy towards which he was rushing onward in the darkness, and its grey oppressive cloud weighed down upon him suddenly a measureless weight of dull weariness, horror and disgust.
He knew that next day he must meet his brother and his father, he knew that the dreaded248 pause and interruption of his flight would last but two short days, and that in this brief time he might see and know for the last time all that was living of his father, and yet the knowledge of this hated meeting filled him with loathing249, a terrible desire to get away from it as quickly as possible, to forget it, to escape from it for ever.
He knew in his heart that for the wretched, feeble, whining250 old man whom he must meet next day, he felt no love whatever. He knew, indeed, that he felt instead a kind of hate — the wretched kind of hatred251 that comes from intolerable pity without love, from suffering and disgust, from the agony of heart and brain and nerves, the poisonous and morbid252 infection of our own lives, which a man dying of a loathsome253 disease awakes in us, and from the self-hate, the self-loathing that it makes us feel because of our terrible desire to escape him, to desert him, to blot254 out the horrible memory we have for him, utterly255 to forget him.
Now the three men remaining in the compartment were rising to depart. Old Flood got up with a painful grunt, carefully dropped the chewed butt256 of his cigar into the brass spittoon, and walked tenderly with a gouty and flat-footed shuffle257 across the little room to the mirrored door of the latrine. He opened it, entered, and closed it behind him. The pompous swarthy little man got up, stretched his short fat arms out stiffly, and said, “Well, I’ll be turning in. I’ll see you in the morning, won’t I, Jim?”
The man with the thin, tight, palely freckled258 face, to whom these words had been addressed, looked up quickly from the magazine he was reading, and said sharply, in a rather cold, surprised and distant tone:
“What? . . . Oh! Yes. Good night, Wade.”
He got up then, carefully detached the horn-rimmed spectacles from his long, pointed259 nose, folded them carefully and put them in the breast pocket of his coat, and then took up the brief-case at his side. At this moment, a man, accompanied by Robert Weaver and by another youth who was about the same age as the boy, entered the smoking-room.
The man, who was in his middle thirties, was a tall lean Englishman, already bald, with bitten and incisive260 features, a cropped moustache, and the high hard flush of the steady drinker.
His name was John Hugh William Macpherson Marriott. He was the youngest son of an ancient family of the English nobility and just a year or two before he had married the great heiress, Virginia Willets. To the boy, and to all the other men in the train, except the man with the cold thin face and pointed nose, the Englishman was known only by sight and rumour261, and his sudden entrance into the smoking-room had much the same effect as would the appearance of a figure from some legendary262 world of which they had often heard, but which they had never seen.
The reason for this feeling was that the Englishman and his wife lived on the great estate near town which her father had built and left to her. All the people in the town had seen this immense estate, had driven over some of its 90,000 acres, had seen its farms, its fields, its pastures, and its forests, its dairies, buildings, and its ranges of wild, smoke-blue mountains. And finally they had all seen from a distance its great mansion263 house, the gables, roof, and spires264 of a huge stone structure modelled on one of the great chateaux of France. But few of them had ever been inside the place or known the wonderful people who lived there.
All the lives of these fortunate people had become, therefore, as strange and wonderful to the people of the town as the lives of legendary heroes. And in a curious way that great estate had shaped the whole life of the town. To be a part of that life, to be admitted there, to know the people who belonged to it would have been the highest success, the greatest triumph that most of the people in the town could imagine. They could not admit it, but it was the truth. At the heart of the town’s desire was the life of that great house.
The Englishman had entered the smoking compartment with the driving movement of a man who has been drinking hard, but is used to it. The moment that he entered, however, and saw the other people there he stopped short, with a kind of stunned abruptness265. In a moment, after an astounded266 silence, he spoke to them, greeting them with the rough, brief, blurted-out friendliness267 of a shy and reticent268 man:
“Hello! . . . Oh, hello! . . . How do?” He grinned formally and suddenly began to stare with an astounded expression at the gouty figure of old Flood who at just this moment had opened the door of the latrine and was shuffling269 painfully out into the compartment. Mr. Flood stopped and returned his look in kind, with his bulging and bejowled stare of comic stupefaction.
In a moment more the Englishman recovered himself, grimaced271 with his shy, quick, toothy grin, and blurted out at Flood, as to the other men:
“Oh, hello! Hello! How d’ye do?”
“I’m pretty good, thank you!” old Flood said hoarsely and slowly, after a heavy pause. “How are you?” and continued to stare heavily and stupidly at him.
But already the Englishman had turned abruptly from him, his face and lean neck reddening instantly and fiercely with the angry embarrassment272 of a shy man. And with the same air of astonished discovery he now addressed himself to the man with the long thin nose and palely freckled face, blurting273 his words out rapidly and by rushes as before, but somehow conveying to the others the sense of his intimacy274 and friendship with this man and of their own exclusion275.
“Oh! . . . There you are, Jim!” he was saying in his astounded and explosive fashion. “Where the devil have you been all night? . . . I say!” he went on rapidly without waiting for an answer, “won’t you come in and have a spot with me before you turn in?”
Every suggestion of the disdain276 and cold aloofness277 which had characterized the other man’s manner towards his fellow-passengers had now vanished at the Englishman’s words. Indeed, in the way he now came forward, smiling, and put his hand in a friendly manner on the Englishman’s arm, there was something almost scrambling278 in its effusive279 eagerness. “Why yes, Hugh,” he said hastily. “I’d be delighted, of course! . . . Just a minute,” he said in an almost confused tone of voice, “till I get my brief-case. . . . Where did I leave it? Oh, here it is!” he cried, picking it up, and making for the door with his companion, “I’m all ready now! Let’s go!”
“Hugh! Hugh!” cried Robert who had accompanied the Englishman when he entered the compartment, and whom the Englishman now seemed to have forgotten entirely280, “will I see you tomorrow before you get off?” The words were spoken in a deep, rapid, eager tone of voice, and in the tone and manner of the youth who spoke them there was the same suggestion of almost fawning281 eagerness that had characterized the older man.
“Eh! What’s that?” the Englishman cried in a startled tone, turning abruptly and staring at the young man who had addressed him. “Oh! Yes, Robert! I’m stopping at Washington! Look in for a moment, won’t you, if you’re up!”
Something in his tone and manner plainly and definitely said that the young man’s company was no longer wanted for the evening, but the youth immediately nodded his head energetically and decisively, saying in a satisfied manner:
“Good! Good! I’ll do that! I’ll be in to say good-bye tomorrow morning.”
“Right!” the Englishman said curtly. “Good night! . . . Good night! . . . Good night!” he blurted out, turning round and addressing every one, yet seeing no one, in a series of toothy grimaces282. “Oh — good night!” he said suddenly, before going out, grinning and shaking hands briefly, in a gesture of permanent dismissal, with the other young man, who was a blond insignificant-looking youth, obviously a “hanger-on,” with whom the Englishman evidently cared to have no further acquaintance. Then, pushing his companion before him through the green curtain, he went out suddenly with the same desperate shy abruptness, and in a moment the other men, saying good night all around, had followed him, and the three young men were left alone in the compartment. It was now after one o’clock. Outside, the moon was up, flooding the dark earth of Virginia with a haunting light. That grand, moon-haunted earth stroked calmly past and, through the media of its changeless and unceasing change, the recession and recurrent movement of the enchanted scene, the train made on for ever its tremendous monotone that was itself the rhythm of suspended time, the sound of silence and for ever.
For a moment, after the men had gone, Robert stared down sternly and quizzically at the boy, with an expression of mock gravity, and then, in his rapid, eager, deep-toned and rather engaging voice, said:
“Well, Colonel? . . . What have you to say for yourself? . . . Was there grass on the back of her back, or was the foul283 deed perpetrated in your Hudson Super Six? . . . Come, sir! Explain yourself! Were you drunk or sober?” And suddenly lifting his thin, young, yet almost tortured-looking face and his restless eyes, which were inflamed284 with drink, and in whose haggard depths the incipient285 flashes of the madness which later would destroy him were already visible, he laughed suddenly, a strange, small, hoarsely falsetto kind of laugh, jerking his head towards the boy, and saying in an annoying and indefinite way:
“Crazy! Crazy! Crazy! . . . The craziest man I ever saw!” He stopped suddenly and, looking down at the boy for a moment with this same expression of haggard, over-driven restlessness, demanded impatiently:
“What have you been doing by yourself all night? Just sitting there all alone and doing nothing? . . . I’ll swear, I don’t see how you do it! . . . I’d go crazy sitting in one place like that without any one to talk to!” he said in an accusing and impatient tone of voice, as if the other youth had really done some extraordinary and unreasonable286 thing. He thrust one hand quickly and impatiently into the trousers pocket of his well-cut clothes in such a way that his Delta287 Kappa Epsilon pin was for a moment visible. Then he stood there, jingling288 some coins about in his pocket and looking at the boy with his inflamed, restless, furiously desperate eyes. Turning away suddenly, with a movement of impatience289, he shook his head in a gesture of astounded disbelief, laughed his little hoarse falsetto laugh again, and said:
“It beats me! . . . Don’t see how he does it! . . . Damnedest man I ever saw! . . . It’d drive me crazy to be alone like that!”
He turned abruptly again, thrust both hands into his pockets, and for a moment stood looking at the boy with the old expression of mock gravity, and with a faintly malicious290 smile hovering291 about the edges of his thin, nervous, strongly modelled mouth.
“Do you know what they’re saying about you at home? . . . Do you know what those people think of you? . . . Do you know what all those old women up there are doing now?” he said hoarsely and accusingly, in his deep, sonorous292, and rapid tone.
“Now, Robert!” the boy suddenly shouted, in a choking and furious tone, getting to his feet. “Don’t you start that stuff! I’m not going to listen to it! You can’t fool me! They’re not saying anything!”
Robert lifted his thin, finely drawn293 face and laughed again, his little annoying hoarse falsetto laugh, in which a note of malice294 and triumph was audible.
“Why, they ARE!” he said solemnly. “It’s the truth! . . . I think you ought to know about it! . . . I heard it everywhere, all over town!”
“Oh, Robert, you’re a liar193!” the boy cried furiously. “WHAT did you hear all over town? You heard nothing!”
“Why, I DID!” said Robert solemnly, as before. “I’ll swear it to you. . . . Do you know what I heard the other day?” he went on in a blunt, accusing tone. “I heard that one of those women up there — some old sister in the Baptist Church — said she grew up with your mother and has known her all her life — well, she’s praying for you!” said Robert solemnly. “I’ll swear she is!”
“Praying for me!” the boy cried in an exasperated295 tone, but at the same time, feeling the numb white nauseous sickness of the heart which the intolerable thought that people are talking in a disparaging296 manner about him, his talents, or the success or failure of his life, can always bring to a young man. “Praying for me!” he fiercely shouted. “Why the hell should any one pray for me?”
“I know! I know!” said Robert, nodding his head vigorously, and speaking with grave agreement. “That’s what I told them. That’s just the way I felt about it! . . . But some of those people down there think you’ve gone to hell for good. . . . Do you know what I heard a woman say the other day? She said that Eugene Gant had gone straight to the devil since he went away to the State University —”
“Robert, I don’t believe you!” the boy shouted. “You’re making all this up!”
“Why, she did! So help me, God! I heard her say it, as sure as I’m standing here,” swore Robert solemnly. “She said you’d gone down there and taken Vergil Weldon’s courses in philosophy and that you were ruined for life! She said you had turned into a regular infidel — didn’t believe in God or anything any more. . . . Said she certainly did feel sorry for your mother,” said Robert maliciously297.
“Feel sorry for my mother!” the boy fairly howled, dancing around now like a maniac298. “Why the hell should the old bitch feel sorry for my mother! My mother can take care of herself; she doesn’t need any one to feel sorry for her! . . . All right, then!” he cried bitterly, with sudden acceptation of the other’s story. “Let ’em pray! If that’s the way they feel, let ’em pray till they wear corns on their God-damned knees! The dirty hypocrites!” he cried bitterly. “I’ll show them! Sneaking299 around behind your back to tell their rotten lies about you — and their talk of praying for your soul! I’m glad I’m out of that damned town! The two-faced bastards301! I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I could throw an elephant by his tail!”
“I know! I know!” said Robert, wagging his head in solemn agreement. “I agree with you absolutely. It’s awful — that’s what it is.”
It was extraordinary that this absurd story, whether true or not, should have had such a violent effect on the emotions of the boy. Yet now that he had been told of some unknown woman’s concern for the salvation302 of his soul, and that certain people of the praying sort already thought that he was “lost,” the words were fastened in his flesh like rankling303 and envenomed barbs304. And instantly, the moment that he heard this story and had cursed it, he thought that it was true. Now, his mind could no longer remember the time just a moment before when Robert’s words had seemed only an idle and malicious fabrication, probably designed to goad305 him, or, even if true, of no great importance.
But now, as if the idle gossip of the other youth had really pronounced some fatal and inexorable judgment against his whole life, the boy’s spirit was set against “them” blindly, as against a nameless and hostile antagonist306. Plunged307 suddenly into a dark weather of fatality308 and grim resolution, something in him was saying grimly and desperately309:
“All right, then. If that’s the way they feel about me, I’ll show them.” And seeing the lonely earth outside that went stroking past the windows of the train, he suddenly felt the dark and brooding joy of desperation and escape, and thought again: “Thank God, I’ve got away at last. Now there’s a new land, a new life, new people like myself who will see and know me as I am and value me — and, by God, I’ll show them! I’ll show THEM, all right.”
And at just this moment of his gloomy thoughts, he muttered sombrely, aloud, with sullen310 face:
“All right! To hell with them! I’ll show them!”
— And was instantly aware that Robert was looking at him, laughing his little, malicious, hoarse, falsetto laugh, and that the other youth, who was a fair-haired, red-cheeked and pleasant-featured boy named Creasman, obviously somewhat inflamed by drink and by his social triumphs of the evening, was now, with an eager excessiveness of good-fellowship, slapping him on the back and saying boisterously311:
“Don’t let him kid you, Gene19! To hell with them! What do you care what they say, anyway?”
With these words, he produced from his pocket a flask312 of the raw, colourless, savagely313 instant corn whisky, of which both of them apparently314 had been partaking pretty freely, and tendering it to the boy, said:
“Here, take a drink!”
The boy took the flask, pulled out the cork315, and putting the bottle to his lips, instantly gulped316 down two or three powerful swallows of the fiery317 stuff. For a moment, he stood there blind and choking, instantly robbed of breath, his throat muscles swelling, working, swallowing convulsively in an aching struggle to keep down the revolting and nauseous tasting stuff, and on no account to show the effort it was costing him.
“Is that the kick of the mule318, or not?” said the Creasman boy, grinning and taking back his flask. “How is it?”
“Good!” the boy said hoarsely, gasping319. “Fine! Best I ever tasted!” And he blinked his eyes rapidly to keep the tears from coming.
“Well, there’s lots more where that came from, boy,” said Creasman. “I’ve got two pint320 jars of it in my berth321. Let me know when you want some more.” And putting the bottle to his lips with a smile, he tilted322 his head, and drank in long easy swallows which showed he was no novice323 to the act.
“Damn!” cried Robert, staring at him, in his familiar tone of astounded disbelief. “Do you mean to tell me you can stand there drinking that stuff straight! Phew!” he said, shuddering324, and making a face. “That old pukey stuff! Why, it’d rot the guts325 of a brass monkey! . . . I don’t see how you people do it!” he cried protestingly, as he took the bottle. In three gulps327 he had drained it to the last drop, and even as he was looking around for a place to throw the empty flask, he shuddered328 convulsively again, made a contracted grimace270 of disgust, and said to the others accusingly, with his small falsetto laugh of astounded protest:
“Why, you’ll kill yourself drinking that stuff raw! Don’t you know that? You must be crazy! . . . Wait a minute,” he muttered suddenly, comically, dropping the bottle deftly329 into his pocket, as the swarthy, pompous little man named Wade entered, attired330 in blue pyjamas331 and a dressing-gown, and holding a tooth-brush and a tube of tooth-paste in his hand:
“Good evening, sir! . . . Ah-hah! . . . How d’ye do?” said Robert, bowing slightly and stiffly, and speaking in his grave, staccato, curiously engaging tone.
“Still up, are you, boys?” the pompous little man remarked, with his usual telling aptness.
“Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert appreciatively. “Yes, sir! . . . Just fixin’ to go! . . . Come on,” he muttered to the others, jerking his head towards the little man warningly. “Not here! . . . Well, good night, sir! . . . Goin’ now.”
“Good night, boys,” said the little man, who now had his back turned to them, and was standing at the silvery basin with his tooth-brush held in readiness. “See you in the morning.”
“Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert. “Yes, sir. That’s right. Goodnight.”
And frowning in a meaningful way at his companions, he jerked his head toward the corridor, and, with an air of great severity, led them out.
“Didn’t want him to see us with that bottle,” he muttered when they were outside in the corridor. “Hell! He’s got the biggest bank in town! Where’d you be if Emmet Wade ever got the idea you’re a liquor-head! . . . Wait a minute!” he said, with the dissonant332 abruptness that characterized so much of his speech and action. “Come outside here — on the platform: nobody to see you there!”
“I’ll meet you out there. I’ll go and get another bottle,” whispered Creasman, and disappeared along the darkened corridor in the direction of his berth. In a moment he returned, and the three of them went out upon the platform at the car-end, closed the door behind them and there, among the rocking and galloping333 noises of the pounding wheels, they took another long drink of the savage liquor. By this time the fiery stuff was leaping, pulsing, pounding the mounting and exuberant334 illusions of its power and strength through every tissue of their blood and life.
And outside, floating past their vision the huge pageant335 of its enchanted and immortal stillness, the old earth of Virginia now lay dreaming in the moon’s white light.
So here they are now, three atoms on the huge breast of the indifferent earth, three youths out of a little town walled far away within the great rim130 of the silent mountains, already a distant, lonely dot upon the immense and sleeping visage of the continent. Here they are — three youths bound for the first time towards their image of the distant and enchanted city, sure that even though so many of their comrades had found there only dust and bitterness, the shining victory will be theirs. Here they are hurled336 onward in the great projectile of the train across the lonely visage of the everlasting earth. Here they are — three nameless grains of life among the man-swarm ciphers337 of the earth, three faces of the million faces, three drops in the unceasing flood — and each of them a flame, a light, a glory, sure that his destiny is written in the blazing stars, his life shone over by the fortunate watches of the moon, his fame nourished and sustained by the huge earth, whose single darling charge he is, on whose immortal stillness he is flung onward in the night, his glorious fate set in the very brain and forehead of the fabulous338, the unceasing city, of whose million-footed life he will tomorrow be a part.
Therefore they stand upon the rocking platform of the train, wild and dark and jubilant from the fierce liquor they have drunk, but more wild and dark and jubilant from the fury swelling in their hearts, the mad fury pounding in their veins339, the savage, exultant and unutterable fury working like a madness in the adyts of their soul. And the great wheels smash and pound beneath their feet, the great wheels pound and smash and give a rhyme to madness, a tongue to hunger and desire, a certitude to all the savage, drunken, and exultant fury that keeps mounting, rising, swelling in them all the time!
Click, clack, clackety-clack; click, clack, clackety-clack; click, clack, clackety-clack; clackety-clackety-clack!
Hip41, hop66, hackety-hack; stip, step, rackety-rack; come and fetch it, come and fetch it, hickety-hickety-hack!
Rock, reel, smash, and swerve340; hit it, hit it, on the curve; steady, steady, does the trick, keep her steady as a stick; eat the earth, eat the earth, slam and slug and beat the earth, and let her whir-r, and let her purr, at eighty perr!
— Whew-w!
— Wow!
— God-dam!
— Put ‘er there, boy!
— Put ‘er there — whah! — WHAH-H! you ole long-legged frowsle-headed son-of-a-bitch!
— Whoop-ee! Whah — WHAH-H! Why, Go-d-d-dam!
— Whee! Vealer rog?
— Wadja say? Gant hearya!
— I say ‘ja vealer rog? Wow! Pour it to her, son! Give ‘er the gas! We’re out to see the world! Run her off the god-damn track, boy! We don’t need no rail, do we?
— Hell no! Which way does this damn train go, anyway, after it leaves Virginia?
— Maryland.
— Maryland my —! I don’t want to go to Maryland! To hell with Mary’s land! Also to hell with Mary’s lamb and Mary’s calf341 and Mary’s blue silk underdrawers! Good old Lucy’s the girl for me — the loosier the better! Give me Lucy any day! Good old Lucy Bowles, God bless her — she’s the pick of the crowd, boys! Here’s to Lucy!
— Robert! Art there, boy?
— Aye, aye, sir! Present!
— Hast seen the damsel down in Lower Seven?
— I’ sooth, sir, that I have! A comely342 wench, I trow!
— Peace, fool! Don’t think, proud Princocke, thou canst snare343 this dove of innocence344 into the nets of infamous345 desire with stale reversions of thy wit! Out, out, vile346 lendings! An but thou carried’st at thy shrunken waist that monstrous347 tun of guts thou takest for a brain ‘twould so beslubber this receiving earth with lard as was not seen twixt here and Nottingham since butter shrove! Out, out upon you, scrapings of the pot! A dove, a doe, it is a faultless swan, I say, a pretty thing!
Now Virginia lay dreaming in the moonlight. In Louisiana bayous the broken moonlight shivers the broken moonlight quivers the light of many rivers lay dreaming in the moonlight beaming in the moonlight dreaming in the moonlight moonlight moonlight seeming in the moonlight moonlight moonlight to be gleaming to be streaming in the moonlight moonlight moonlight moonlight moonlight moonlight moonlight moonlight
— Mo-hoo-oonlight-oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight
— To be seeming to be dreaming in the moonlight!
WHAM!
SMASH!
— Now! God-dam, let her have it! Wow-w!
With slamming roar, hoarse waugh, and thunderbolted light, the southbound train is gone in one projectile smash of wind-like fury, and the open empty silence of its passing fills us, thrills us, stills us with the vision of Virginia in the moonlight, with the dream-still magic of Virginia in the moon.
And now, as if with recollected348 force, the train gains power from the train it passed, leaps, gathers, springs beneath them, smashes on with recollected demon’s fury in the dark . . .
With slam-bang of devil’s racket and God-dam of curse — give us the bottle, drink, boys, drink! — the power of Virginia lies compacted in the moon. To you, God-dam of devil’s magic and slam-bang of drive, fire-flame of the terrific furnace, slam of rod, storm-stroke of pistoned wheel and thunderbolt of speed, great earth-devourer, city-bringer — hail!
To you, also, old glint of demon hawk-eyes on the rail and the dark gloved hand of cunning — you, there, old bristle-crops! — Tom Wilson, H. F. Cline, or T. J. Johnson — whatever the hell your name is —
CASEY JONES! Open the throttle349, boy, and let her rip! Boys, I’m a belly-busting bastard300 from the State of old Catawba — a rootin’ tootin’ shootin’ son-of-a-bitch from Saw Tooth Gap in Buncombe — why, God help this lovely bastard of a train — it is the best damned train that ever turned a wheel since Casey Jones’s father was a pup — why, you sweet bastard, run! Eat up Virginia! — Give her the throttle, you old goggle-eyed son-of-a-bitch up there! — Pour it to her! Let ‘er have it, you nigger-Baptist bastard of a shovelling350 fireman — let ‘er rip! — Wow! By God, we’ll be in Washington for breakfast!
— Why, God bless this lovely bastard of a train! It is the best damned train that ever pulled a car since Grant took Richmond! — Which way does the damn thing go? — Pennsylvania? — Well, that’s all right! Don’t you say a word against Pennsylvania! My father came from Pennsylvania, boys, he was the best damned man that ever lived — He was a stone-cutter and he’s better than any son-of-a-bitch of a plumber351 you ever saw — He’s got a cancer and six doctors and they can’t kill him! — But to hell with going where we go! — We’re out to see the world, boy! — To hell with Baltimore, New York, Boston! Run her off the God-damn rails! We’re going West! Run her through the woods — cross fields — rivers, through the hills! Hell’s pecker! But I’ll shove her up the grade and through the gap, no double-header needed! — Let’s see the world now! Through Nebraska, boy! Let’s shove her through, now, you can do it! — Let’s run her through Ohio, Kansas, and the unknown plains! Come on, you hogger352, let’s see the great plains and the fields of wheat — Stop off in Dakota, Minnesota, and the fertile places — Give us a minute while you breathe to put our foot upon it, to feel it spring back with the deep elastic353 feeling, 8,000 miles below, unrolled and lavish, depthless, different from the East.
Now Virginia lay dreaming in the moonlight! And on Florida’s bright waters the fair and lovely daughters of the Wilsons and the Potters; the Cabots and the Lowells; the Weisbergs and O’Hares; the Astors and the Goulds; the Ransoms354 and the Rands; the Westalls and the Pattons and the Webbs; the Reynolds and McRaes; the Spanglers and the Beams; the Gudgers and the Blakes; the Pedersons and Craigs — all the lovely daughters, the Robinsons and Waters, the millionaires’ sweet daughters, the Boston maids, the Beacon355 Slades, the Back Bay Wades356, all of the merchant, lawyer, railroad and well-moneyed grades of Hudson River daughters in the moon’s bright living waters — lay dreaming in the moonlight, beaming in the moonlight, seeming in the moonlight, to be dreaming to be gleaming in the moon.
— Give ’em hell, son!
— Here, give him another drink! — Attaboy! Drink her down!
— Drink her down — drink her down — drink her down — damn your soul — drink her down!
— By God, I’ll drink her down and flood the whole end of Virginia, I’ll drown out Maryland, make a flood in Pennsylvania — I tell you boys I’ll float ’em, I’ll raise ’em up, I’ll bring ’em down stream, now — I mean the Potters and the Waters, the rich men’s lovely daughters, the city’s tender daughters, the Hudson river daughters —
Lay dreaming in the moonlight, beaming in the moonlight, to be seeming to be beaming in the moonlight moonlight moonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight oonlight.
And Virginia lay dreaming in the moon.
Then the moon blazed down upon the vast desolation of the American coasts, and on all the glut357 and hiss358 of tides, on all the surge and foaming359 slide of waters on lone11 beaches. The moon blazed down on 18,000 miles of coast, on the million sucks and scoops360 and hollows of the shore, and on the great wink of the sea, that ate the earth minutely and eternally. The moon blazed down upon the wilderness, it fell on sleeping woods, it dripped through moving leaves, it swarmed361 in weaving patterns on the earth, and it filled the cat’s still eye with blazing yellow. The moon slept over mountains and lay like silence in the desert, and it carved the shadows of great rocks like time. The moon was mixed with flowing rivers, and it was buried in the heart of lakes, and it trembled on the water like bright fish. The moon steeped all the earth in its living and unearthly substance, it had a thousand visages, it painted continental362 space with ghostly light; and its light was proper to the nature of all the things it touched: it came in with the sea, it flowed with the rivers, and it was still and living on clear spaces in the forest where no men watched.
And in woodland darkness great birds fluttered to their sleep — in sleeping woodlands strange and secret birds, the teal, the nightjar, and the flying rail went to their sleep with flutterings dark as hearts of sleeping men. In fronded363 beds and on the leaves of unfamiliar364 plants where the tarantula, the adder365, and the asp had fed themselves asleep on their own poisons, and on lush jungle depths where green-golden, bitter red and glossy366 blue proud tufted birds cried out with brainless scream, the moonlight slept.
The moonlight slept above dark herds367 moving with slow grazings in the night, it covered lonely little villages; but most of all it fell upon the unbroken undulation of the wilderness, and it blazed on windows and moved across the face of sleeping men.
Sleep lay upon the wilderness, it lay across the faces of the nations, it lay like silence on the hearts of sleeping men; and low upon lowlands, and high upon hills, flowed gently sleep, smooth-sliding sleep — sleep — sleep.
— Robert —
— Go on to bed, Gene, go to bed now, go to bed.
— There’s shump’n I mush shay t’you —
— Damn fool! Go to bed!
— Go to bed! I’ll go to bed when I’m God-damn good and ready! I’ll not go to bed when there’s shump’n I mush shay t’you —
— Go on to bed now, Gene. You’ve had enough.
— Creasman, you’re a good fellow maybe but I don’t know you. . . . You keep out of this. . . . Robert. . . . I’m gonna tell y’ shump’n. . . . You made a remark t’night I didn’ like — Prayin’ for me, are they, Robert?
— You damn fool! — You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout! Go on to bed! —
— I’ll go to bed, you bastard — I got shump’n to shay t’you! — Prayin.’ for me, are yuh? — Pray for yourself, y’ bloody368 little Deke!
— Damn fool’s crazy! Go on to bed now —
— I’ll bed yuh, you son-of-a-bitch! What was it that y’ said that day? —
— What day? You damned fool, you don’t know what you’re saying!
— I’ll tell yuh what day! — Coming along Chestnut369 Street that day after school with you and me and Sunny Jim Curtis and Ed Petrie and Bob Pegram and Carl Hartshorn and Monk326 Paul — and the rest of those boys —
— You damn fool! Chestnut Street! I don’t know what you’re talking about!
— Yes, you do! — You and me and Bob and Carl and Irwin and Jim Homes and some other boys —‘Member what y’ said, yuh son-of-a-bitch? Old man English was in his yard there burning up some leaves and it was October and we were comin’ along there after school and you could smell the leaves and it was after school and you said, “Here’s Mr. Gant, the tombstone-cutter’s son.”
— You damn fool! I don’t know what you’re talking about! —
— Yes, you do, you cheap Deke son-of-a-bitch — Too good to talk to us on the street when you were sucking around after Bruce Martin or Steve Patton or Jack370 Marriott — but a lifelong brother — oh! couldn’t see enough of us, could you, when you were alone?
— The damn fool’s crazy!
— Crazy, am I? — Well, we never had any old gummy grannies tied down and hidden in the attic371 — which is more than some people that I know can say! — you son-of-a-bitch — who do you think you are with your big airs and big Deke pin! — My people were better people than your crowd ever hoped to be-we’ve been here longer and we’re better people — and as for the tombstone-cutter’s son, my father was the best damned stone-cutter that ever lived — he’s dying of cancer and all the doctors in the world can’t kill him — he’s a better man than any little expolice court magistrate372 who calls himself a judge will ever be-and that goes for you too — you —
Why, you crazy fool! I never said anything about your father —
To hell with you, you damn little bootlicking —
Come on Gene come on you’ve had enough you’re drunk now come on.
Why God-damn you to hell, I hate your guts you —
All right, all right — He’s drunk! He’s crazy — Come on, Bill! Leave him alone! — He don’t know what he’s doing —
All right. Good night, Gene. . . . Be careful now — See you in the morning, boy.
All right, Robert, I mean nothing against you — you —
All right! — All right! — Come on, Bill. Let him alone! Good night, Gene — Come on — let’s go to bed! —
To bed to bed to bed to bed to bed! So, so, so, so, so! Make no noise, make no noise, draw the curtains; so, so, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning: so, so, so.
And Ile goe to bedde at noone.
Alone, alone now, down the dark, the green, the jungle aisle373 between the dark drugged snorings of the sleepers374. The pause, the stir, the sigh, the sudden shift, the train that now rumbles375 on through the dark forests of the dream-charged moon-enchanted mind its monotone of silence and for ever: Out of these prison bands of clothes, now, rip, tear, toss, and haul while the green-curtained sleepers move from jungle depths and the even-pounding silence of eternity376 — into the stiff white sheets, the close, hot air, his long body crookedly377 athwart, lights out, to see it shining faintly in the coffined378 under-surface of the berth above — and sleepless379, Virginia floating, dreamlike, in the still white haunting of the moon —
— At night, great trains will pass us in the timeless spell of an unsleeping hypnosis, an endless and unfathomable stupefaction. Then suddenly in the unwaking never-sleeping century of the night, the sensual limbs of carnal whited nakedness that stir with drowsy silken warmth in the green secrecies380 of Lower Seven, the slow-swelling and lonely and swarm-haunted land — and suddenly, suddenly, silence and thick hardening lust381 of dark exultant joy, the dreamlike passage of Virginia! — Then in the watches of the night a pause, the sudden silence of up-welling night, and unseen faces, voices, laughter, and farewells upon a lonely little night-time station — the lost and lonely voices of Americans:—“Good-bye! Good-bye, now! Write us when you get there, Helen! Tell Bob he’s got to write! — Give my love to Emily! — Good-bye, good-bye now — write us, soon!”— And then the secret, silken and subdued382 rustling383 past the thick green curtains and the sleepers, the low respectful negroid tones of the black porter — and then the whistle cry, the tolling bell, the great train mounting to its classic monotone again, and presently the last lights of a little town, the floating void and loneliness of moon-haunted earth — Virginia!
Also, in the dream — thickets384 of eternal night — there will be huge steamings on the rail, the sudden smash, the wall of light, the sudden flarings of wild, roaring light upon the moon-haunted and dream-tortured faces of the sleepers!
— And finally, in that dark jungle of the night, through all the visions, memories, and enchanted weavings of the timeless and eternal spell of time, the moment of for ever — there are two horsemen, riding, riding, riding in the night.
Who are they? Oh, we know them with our life and they will ride across the land, the moon-haunted passage of our lives for ever. Their names are Death and Pity, and we know their face: our brother and our father ride ever beside us in the dream-enchanted spell and vista385 of the night; the hooves keep level time beside the rhythms of the train.
Horsed on the black and moon-maned steeds of fury, cloaked in the dark of night, the spell of time, dream-pale, eternal, they are rushing on across the haunted land, the moon-enchanted wilderness, and their hooves make level thunder with the train.
Pale Pity and Lean Death their names are, and they will ride for evermore the moon-plantations of Virginia keeping time time time to the level thunder of the train pounding time time time as with four-hooved thunder of phantasmal hooves they pound for ever level with the train across the moon-plantations of Virginia.
Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum as with storm-phantasmal hooves Lean Death and Pale Pity with quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum . . . campum . . . quadrupedante . . . putrem . . . putrem . . . putrem putrem putrem as with sonitu quatit ungula campum quadrupedante putrem . . . putrem . . . putrem putrem putrem . . . putrem . . . putrem . . . putrem putrem putrem quadrupedante quadrupedante quadrupedante putrem putrem as with sonitu quatit ungula campum quadrupedante putrem . . . putrem . . . putrem putrem putrem . . . as with sonitu quatit ungula campum quadrupedante putrem . . . ungula campum . . . campum . . . ungula . . . ungula campum . . .
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1
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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10
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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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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12
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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14
projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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18
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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20
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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21
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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22
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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23
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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24
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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25
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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27
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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28
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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29
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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30
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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31
massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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32
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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33
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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34
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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35
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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36
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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37
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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39
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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40
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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41
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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42
apogee
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| n.远地点；极点；顶点 | |
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43
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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44
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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45
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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46
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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47
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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48
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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49
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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51
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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52
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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53
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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54
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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55
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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56
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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57
cogently
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| adv.痛切地，中肯地 | |
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58
census
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| n.(官方的)人口调查，人口普查 | |
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59
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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60
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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61
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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62
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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63
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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66
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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67
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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68
slumps
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| 萧条期( slump的名词复数 )； （个人、球队等的）低潮状态； （销售量、价格、价值等的）骤降； 猛跌 | |
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69
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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70
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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71
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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72
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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73
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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74
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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75
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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76
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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77
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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78
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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80
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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81
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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82
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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83
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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84
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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85
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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86
ponderously
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87
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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88
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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89
stertorously
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90
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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91
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
wheeze
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| n.喘息声，气喘声；v.喘息着说 | |
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93
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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94
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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95
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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96
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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97
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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98
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
wheezingly
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| adv.哮喘地，喘息地 | |
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100
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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101
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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102
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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103
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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104
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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105
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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106
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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107
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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108
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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110
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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111
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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112
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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113
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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114
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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115
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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116
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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117
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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118
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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119
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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120
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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121
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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122
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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123
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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124
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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125
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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126
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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127
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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128
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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129
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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130
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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131
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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132
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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133
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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134
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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135
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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136
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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137
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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138
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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139
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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140
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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141
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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142
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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143
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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144
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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145
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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146
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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147
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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148
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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149
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
pugnaciously
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151
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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152
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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153
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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154
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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155
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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156
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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157
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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158
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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160
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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161
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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162
sidereal
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| adj.恒星的 | |
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163
scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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164
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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165
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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166
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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167
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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168
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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170
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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171
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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172
snarls
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| n.（动物的）龇牙低吼( snarl的名词复数 )；愤怒叫嚷（声）；咆哮（声）；疼痛叫声v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的第三人称单数 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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173
fumbles
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| 摸索，笨拙的处理( fumble的名词复数 ) | |
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174
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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175
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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176
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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177
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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178
stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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180
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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181
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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182
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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183
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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184
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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185
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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186
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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187
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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188
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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189
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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190
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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191
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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192
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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193
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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194
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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195
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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196
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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197
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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198
incandescence
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| n.白热，炽热；白炽 | |
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199
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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200
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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201
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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202
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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203
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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204
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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205
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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206
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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207
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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208
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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209
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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210
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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211
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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212
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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213
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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214
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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215
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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216
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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217
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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218
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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219
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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220
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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221
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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222
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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223
gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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224
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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225
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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226
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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227
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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228
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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229
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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230
reptilian
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| adj.（像）爬行动物的；（像）爬虫的；卑躬屈节的；卑鄙的n.两栖动物；卑劣的人 | |
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231
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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232
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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233
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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234
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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235
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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236
preludes
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| n.开端( prelude的名词复数 )；序幕；序曲；短篇作品 | |
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237
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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238
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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239
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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240
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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241
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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242
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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243
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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244
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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246
exultancy
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| n.大喜，狂喜 | |
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247
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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248
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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249
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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250
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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251
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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252
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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253
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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254
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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255
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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256
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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257
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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258
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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259
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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260
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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261
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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262
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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263
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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264
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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265
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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266
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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267
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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268
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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269
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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270
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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271
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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272
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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273
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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274
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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275
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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276
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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277
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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278
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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279
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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280
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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281
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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282
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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283
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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284
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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286
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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287
delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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288
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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289
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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290
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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291
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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292
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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293
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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294
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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295
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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296
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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297
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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298
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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299
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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300
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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301
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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302
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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303
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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304
barbs
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| n.（箭头、鱼钩等的）倒钩( barb的名词复数 )；带刺的话；毕露的锋芒；钩状毛 | |
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305
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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306
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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307
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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308
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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309
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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310
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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311
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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312
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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313
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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314
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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315
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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316
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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317
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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318
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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319
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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320
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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321
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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322
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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323
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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324
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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325
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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326
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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327
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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328
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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329
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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330
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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331
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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332
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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333
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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334
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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335
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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336
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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337
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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338
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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339
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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340
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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341
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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342
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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343
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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344
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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345
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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346
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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347
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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348
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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349
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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350
shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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351
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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352
hogger
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| n.木材切碎机，火车司机；钻工 | |
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353
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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354
ransoms
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的名词复数 ) | |
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355
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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356
wades
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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357
glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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358
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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359
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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360
scoops
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| n.小铲( scoop的名词复数 )；小勺；一勺[铲]之量；（抢先刊载、播出的）独家新闻v.抢先报道( scoop的第三人称单数 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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361
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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362
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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363
fronded
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| 前移的 | |
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364
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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365
adder
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| n.蝰蛇；小毒蛇 | |
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366
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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367
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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368
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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369
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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370
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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371
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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372
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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373
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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374
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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375
rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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376
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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377
crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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378
coffined
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| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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379
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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380
secrecies
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| 保密（secrecy的复数形式） | |
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381
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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382
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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383
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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384
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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385
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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