The nature of this society, such as we afterwards discovered it to be, is soon and simply told. It is an eccentric and Bohemian Club, of which the absolute condition of membership lies in this, that the candidate must have invented the method by which he earns his living. It must be an entirely new trade. The exact definition of this requirement is given in the two principal rules. First, it must not be a mere15 application or variation of an existing trade. Thus, for instance, the Club would not admit an insurance agent simply because instead of insuring men's furniture against being burnt in a fire, he insured, let us say, their trousers against being torn by a mad dog. The principle (as Sir Bradcock Burnaby-Bradcock, in the extraordinarily16 eloquent17 and soaring speech to the club on the occasion of the question being raised in the Stormby Smith affair, said wittily18 and keenly) is the same. Secondly19, the trade must be a genuine commercial source of income, the support of its inventor. Thus the Club would not receive a man simply because he chose to pass his days collecting broken sardine20 tins, unless he could drive a roaring trade in them. Professor Chick made that quite clear. And when one remembers what Professor Chick's own new trade was, one doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The discovery of this strange society was a curiously21 refreshing22 thing; to realize that there were ten new trades in the world was like looking at the first ship or the first plough. It made a man feel what he should feel, that he was still in the childhood of the world. That I should have come at last upon so singular a body was, I may say without vanity, not altogether singular, for I have a mania24 for belonging to as many societies as possible: I may be said to collect clubs, and I have accumulated a vast and fantastic variety of specimens25 ever since, in my audacious youth, I collected the Athenaeum. At some future day, perhaps, I may tell tales of some of the other bodies to which I have belonged. I will recount the doings of the Dead Man's Shoes Society (that superficially immoral26, but darkly justifiable27 communion); I will explain the curious origin of the Cat and Christian28, the name of which has been so shamefully29 misinterpreted; and the world shall know at last why the Institute of Typewriters coalesced30 with the Red Tulip League. Of the Ten Teacups, of course I dare not say a word. The first of my revelations, at any rate, shall be concerned with the Club of Queer Trades, which, as I have said, was one of this class, one which I was almost bound to come across sooner or later, because of my singular hobby. The wild youth of the metropolis31 call me facetiously32 'The King of Clubs'. They also call me 'The Cherub33', in allusion34 to the roseate and youthful appearance I have presented in my declining years. I only hope the spirits in the better world have as good dinners as I have. But the finding of the Club of Queer Trades has one very curious thing about it. The most curious thing about it is that it was not discovered by me; it was discovered by my friend Basil Grant, a star-gazer, a mystic, and a man who scarcely stirred out of his attic35.
Very few people knew anything of Basil; not because he was in the least unsociable, for if a man out of the street had walked into his rooms he would have kept him talking till morning. Few people knew him, because, like all poets, he could do without them; he welcomed a human face as he might welcome a sudden blend of colour in a sunset; but he no more felt the need of going out to parties than he felt the need of altering the sunset clouds. He lived in a queer and comfortable garret in the roofs of Lambeth. He was surrounded by a chaos of things that were in odd contrast to the slums around him; old fantastic books, swords, armour—the whole dust-hole of romanticism. But his face, amid all these quixotic relics36, appeared curiously keen and modern—a powerful, legal face. And no one but I knew who he was.
Long ago as it is, everyone remembers the terrible and grotesque37 scene that occurred in———, when one of the most acute and forcible of the English judges suddenly went mad on the bench. I had my own view of that occurrence; but about the facts themselves there is no question at all. For some months, indeed for some years, people had detected something curious in the judge's conduct. He seemed to have lost interest in the law, in which he had been beyond expression brilliant and terrible as a K.C., and to be occupied in giving personal and moral advice to the people concerned. He talked more like a priest or a doctor, and a very outspoken38 one at that. The first thrill was probably given when he said to a man who had attempted a crime of passion: “I sentence you to three years imprisonment40, under the firm, and solemn, and God-given conviction, that what you require is three months at the seaside.” He accused criminals from the bench, not so much of their obvious legal crimes, but of things that had never been heard of in a court of justice, monstrous41 egoism, lack of humour, and morbidity42 deliberately43 encouraged. Things came to a head in that celebrated44 diamond case in which the Prime Minister himself, that brilliant patrician46, had to come forward, gracefully47 and reluctantly, to give evidence against his valet. After the detailed49 life of the household had been thoroughly50 exhibited, the judge requested the Premier51 again to step forward, which he did with quiet dignity. The judge then said, in a sudden, grating voice: “Get a new soul. That thing's not fit for a dog. Get a new soul.” All this, of course, in the eyes of the sagacious, was premonitory of that melancholy and farcical day when his wits actually deserted52 him in open court. It was a libel case between two very eminent53 and powerful financiers, against both of whom charges of considerable defalcation54 were brought. The case was long and complex; the advocates were long and eloquent; but at last, after weeks of work and rhetoric55, the time came for the great judge to give a summing-up; and one of his celebrated masterpieces of lucidity56 and pulverizing57 logic58 was eagerly looked for. He had spoken very little during the prolonged affair, and he looked sad and lowering at the end of it. He was silent for a few moments, and then burst into a stentorian59 song. His remarks (as reported) were as follows:
“O Rowty-owty tiddly-owty Tiddly-owty tiddly-owty Highty-ighty tiddly-ighty Tiddly-ighty ow.”
I was sitting there one evening, about six o'clock, over a glass of that gorgeous Burgundy which he kept behind a pile of black-letter folios; he was striding about the room, fingering, after a habit of his, one of the great swords in his collection; the red glare of the strong fire struck his square features and his fierce grey hair; his blue eyes were even unusually full of dreams, and he had opened his mouth to speak dreamily, when the door was flung open, and a pale, fiery61 man, with red hair and a huge furred overcoat, swung himself panting into the room.
“Sorry to bother you, Basil,” he gasped62. “I took a liberty—made an appointment here with a man—a client—in five minutes—I beg your pardon, sir,” and he gave me a bow of apology.
Basil smiled at me. “You didn't know,” he said, “that I had a practical brother. This is Rupert Grant, Esquire, who can and does all there is to be done. Just as I was a failure at one thing, he is a success at everything. I remember him as a journalist, a house-agent, a naturalist63, an inventor, a publisher, a schoolmaster, a—what are you now, Rupert?”
“I am and have been for some time,” said Rupert, with some dignity, “a private detective, and there's my client.”
A loud rap at the door had cut him short, and, on permission being given, the door was thrown sharply open and a stout64, dapper man walked swiftly into the room, set his silk hat with a clap on the table, and said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” with a stress on the last syllable65 that somehow marked him out as a martinet66, military, literary and social. He had a large head streaked67 with black and grey, and an abrupt68 black moustache, which gave him a look of fierceness which was contradicted by his sad sea-blue eyes.
Basil immediately said to me, “Let us come into the next room, Gully,” and was moving towards the door, but the stranger said:
“Not at all. Friends remain. Assistance possibly.”
The moment I heard him speak I remembered who he was, a certain Major Brown I had met years before in Basil's society. I had forgotten altogether the black dandified figure and the large solemn head, but I remembered the peculiar69 speech, which consisted of only saying about a quarter of each sentence, and that sharply, like the crack of a gun. I do not know, it may have come from giving orders to troops.
Major Brown was a V.C., and an able and distinguished70 soldier, but he was anything but a warlike person. Like many among the iron men who recovered British India, he was a man with the natural beliefs and tastes of an old maid. In his dress he was dapper and yet demure71; in his habits he was precise to the point of the exact adjustment of a tea-cup. One enthusiasm he had, which was of the nature of a religion—the cultivation72 of pansies. And when he talked about his collection, his blue eyes glittered like a child's at a new toy, the eyes that had remained untroubled when the troops were roaring victory round Roberts at Candahar.
“Well, Major,” said Rupert Grant, with a lordly heartiness73, flinging himself into a chair, “what is the matter with you?”
“Yellow pansies. Coal-cellar. P. G. Northover,” said the Major, with righteous indignation.
We glanced at each other with inquisitiveness74. Basil, who had his eyes shut in his abstracted way, said simply:
“I beg your pardon.”
“Fact is. Street, you know, man, pansies. On wall. Death to me. Something. Preposterous75.”
We shook our heads gently. Bit by bit, and mainly by the seemingly sleepy assistance of Basil Grant, we pieced together the Major's fragmentary, but excited narration76. It would be infamous77 to submit the reader to what we endured; therefore I will tell the story of Major Brown in my own words. But the reader must imagine the scene. The eyes of Basil closed as in a trance, after his habit, and the eyes of Rupert and myself getting rounder and rounder as we listened to one of the most astounding78 stories in the world, from the lips of the little man in black, sitting bolt upright in his chair and talking like a telegram.
Major Brown was, I have said, a successful soldier, but by no means an enthusiastic one. So far from regretting his retirement79 on half-pay, it was with delight that he took a small neat villa80, very like a doll's house, and devoted81 the rest of his life to pansies and weak tea. The thought that battles were over when he had once hung up his sword in the little front hall (along with two patent stew-pots and a bad water-colour), and betaken himself instead to wielding82 the rake in his little sunlit garden, was to him like having come into a harbour in heaven. He was Dutch-like and precise in his taste in gardening, and had, perhaps, some tendency to drill his flowers like soldiers. He was one of those men who are capable of putting four umbrellas in the stand rather than three, so that two may lean one way and two another; he saw life like a pattern in a freehand drawing-book. And assuredly he would not have believed, or even understood, any one who had told him that within a few yards of his brick paradise he was destined83 to be caught in a whirlpool of incredible adventure, such as he had never seen or dreamed of in the horrible jungle, or the heat of battle.
One certain bright and windy afternoon, the Major, attired84 in his usual faultless manner, had set out for his usual constitutional. In crossing from one great residential85 thoroughfare to another, he happened to pass along one of those aimless-looking lanes which lie along the back-garden walls of a row of mansions86, and which in their empty and discoloured appearance give one an odd sensation as of being behind the scenes of a theatre. But mean and sulky as the scene might be in the eyes of most of us, it was not altogether so in the Major's, for along the coarse gravel87 footway was coming a thing which was to him what the passing of a religious procession is to a devout88 person. A large, heavy man, with fish-blue eyes and a ring of irradiating red beard, was pushing before him a barrow, which was ablaze89 with incomparable flowers. There were splendid specimens of almost every order, but the Major's own favourite pansies predominated. The Major stopped and fell into conversation, and then into bargaining. He treated the man after the manner of collectors and other mad men, that is to say, he carefully and with a sort of anguish90 selected the best roots from the less excellent, praised some, disparaged91 others, made a subtle scale ranging from a thrilling worth and rarity to a degraded insignificance92, and then bought them all. The man was just pushing off his barrow when he stopped and came close to the Major.
“I'll tell you what, sir,” he said. “If you're interested in them things, you just get on to that wall.”
“On the wall!” cried the scandalised Major, whose conventional soul quailed93 within him at the thought of such fantastic trespass94.
“Finest show of yellow pansies in England in that there garden, sir,” hissed95 the tempter. “I'll help you up, sir.”
How it happened no one will ever know but that positive enthusiasm of the Major's life triumphed over all its negative traditions, and with an easy leap and swing that showed that he was in no need of physical assistance, he stood on the wall at the end of the strange garden. The second after, the flapping of the frock-coat at his knees made him feel inexpressibly a fool. But the next instant all such trifling96 sentiments were swallowed up by the most appalling97 shock of surprise the old soldier had ever felt in all his bold and wandering existence. His eyes fell upon the garden, and there across a large bed in the centre of the lawn was a vast pattern of pansies; they were splendid flowers, but for once it was not their horticultural aspects that Major Brown beheld98, for the pansies were arranged in gigantic capital letters so as to form the sentence:
DEATH TO MAJOR BROWN
A kindly99 looking old man, with white whiskers, was watering them. Brown looked sharply back at the road behind him; the man with the barrow had suddenly vanished. Then he looked again at the lawn with its incredible inscription100. Another man might have thought he had gone mad, but Brown did not. When romantic ladies gushed101 over his V.C. and his military exploits, he sometimes felt himself to be a painfully prosaic102 person, but by the same token he knew he was incurably103 sane104. Another man, again, might have thought himself a victim of a passing practical joke, but Brown could not easily believe this. He knew from his own quaint105 learning that the garden arrangement was an elaborate and expensive one; he thought it extravagantly106 improbable that any one would pour out money like water for a joke against him. Having no explanation whatever to offer, he admitted the fact to himself, like a clear-headed man, and waited as he would have done in the presence of a man with six legs.
At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up, and the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl107 of water down the gravel path.
“Who on earth are you?” he gasped, trembling violently.
“I am Major Brown,” said that individual, who was always cool in the hour of action.
The old man gaped108 helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he stammered109 wildly, “Come down—come down here!”
“At your service,” said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.
The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling110 run towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of apoplectic112 terror dimly showing in the twilight.
“For heaven's sake,” he said, “don't mention jackals.”
Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran downstairs with a clatter113.
The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper114, and peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had the finest manners in the world, and, though mystified, was not in the least embarrassed to see that the only occupant was a lady, sitting by the window, looking out.
“Madam,” he said, bowing simply, “I am Major Brown.”
“Sit down,” said the lady; but she did not turn her head.
She was a graceful48, green-clad figure, with fiery red hair and a flavour of Bedford Park. “You have come, I suppose,” she said mournfully, “to tax me about the hateful title-deeds.”
“I have come, madam,” he said, “to know what is the matter. To know why my name is written across your garden. Not amicably115 either.”
He spoke39 grimly, for the thing had hit him. It is impossible to describe the effect produced on the mind by that quiet and sunny garden scene, the frame for a stunning116 and brutal117 personality. The evening air was still, and the grass was golden in the place where the little flowers he studied cried to heaven for his blood.
“You know I must not turn round,” said the lady; “every afternoon till the stroke of six I must keep my face turned to the street.”
Some queer and unusual inspiration made the prosaic soldier resolute118 to accept these outrageous119 riddles121 without surprise.
“It is almost six,” he said; and even as he spoke the barbaric copper clock upon the wall clanged the first stroke of the hour. At the sixth the lady sprang up and turned on the Major one of the queerest and yet most attractive faces he had ever seen in his life; open, and yet tantalising, the face of an elf.
“That makes the third year I have waited,” she cried. “This is an anniversary. The waiting almost makes one wish the frightful122 thing would happen once and for all.”
And even as she spoke, a sudden rending124 cry broke the stillness. From low down on the pavement of the dim street (it was already twilight) a voice cried out with a raucous125 and merciless distinctness:
“Major Brown, Major Brown, where does the jackal dwell?”
Brown was decisive and silent in action. He strode to the front door and looked out. There was no sign of life in the blue gloaming of the street, where one or two lamps were beginning to light their lemon sparks. On returning, he found the lady in green trembling.
“It is the end,” she cried, with shaking lips; “it may be death for both of us. Whenever—”
But even as she spoke her speech was cloven by another hoarse126 proclamation from the dark street, again horribly articulate.
“Major Brown, Major Brown, how did the jackal die?”
Brown dashed out of the door and down the steps, but again he was frustrated127; there was no figure in sight, and the street was far too long and empty for the shouter to have run away. Even the rational Major was a little shaken as he returned in a certain time to the drawing-room. Scarcely had he done so than the terrific voice came:
“Major Brown, Major Brown, where did—”
Brown was in the street almost at a bound, and he was in time—in time to see something which at first glance froze the blood. The cries appeared to come from a decapitated head resting on the pavement.
The next moment the pale Major understood. It was the head of a man thrust through the coal-hole in the street. The next moment, again, it had vanished, and Major Brown turned to the lady. “Where's your coal-cellar?” he said, and stepped out into the passage.
She looked at him with wild grey eyes. “You will not go down,” she cried, “alone, into the dark hole, with that beast?”
“Is this the way?” replied Brown, and descended128 the kitchen stairs three at a time. He flung open the door of a black cavity and stepped in, feeling in his pocket for matches. As his right hand was thus occupied, a pair of great slimy hands came out of the darkness, hands clearly belonging to a man of gigantic stature129, and seized him by the back of the head. They forced him down, down in the suffocating130 darkness, a brutal image of destiny. But the Major's head, though upside down, was perfectly131 clear and intellectual. He gave quietly under the pressure until he had slid down almost to his hands and knees. Then finding the knees of the invisible monster within a foot of him, he simply put out one of his long, bony, and skilful132 hands, and gripping the leg by a muscle pulled it off the ground and laid the huge living man, with a crash, along the floor. He strove to rise, but Brown was on top like a cat. They rolled over and over. Big as the man was, he had evidently now no desire but to escape; he made sprawls134 hither and thither135 to get past the Major to the door, but that tenacious136 person had him hard by the coat collar and hung with the other hand to a beam. At length there came a strain in holding back this human bull, a strain under which Brown expected his hand to rend123 and part from the arm. But something else rent and parted; and the dim fat figure of the giant vanished out of the cellar, leaving the torn coat in the Major's hand; the only fruit of his adventure and the only clue to the mystery. For when he went up and out at the front door, the lady, the rich hangings, and the whole equipment of the house had disappeared. It had only bare boards and whitewashed137 walls.
“The lady was in the conspiracy138, of course,” said Rupert, nodding. Major Brown turned brick red. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I think not.”
Rupert raised his eyebrows139 and looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. When next he spoke he asked:
“Was there anything in the pockets of the coat?”
“There was sevenpence halfpenny in coppers141 and a threepenny-bit,” said the Major carefully; “there was a cigarette-holder, a piece of string, and this letter,” and he laid it on the table. It ran as follows:
I am annoyed to hear that some delay has occurred in the arrangements re Major Brown. Please see that he is attacked as per arrangement tomorrow. The coal-cellar, of course.
Yours faithfully, P. G. Northover.
Rupert Grant was leaning forward listening with hawk-like eyes. He cut in:
“Is it dated from anywhere?”
“No—oh, yes!” replied Brown, glancing upon the paper; “14 Tanner's Court, North—”
Rupert sprang up and struck his hands together.
“Then why are we hanging here? Let's get along. Basil, lend me your revolver.”
Basil was staring into the embers like a man in a trance; and it was some time before he answered:
“I don't think you'll need it.”
“Perhaps not,” said Rupert, getting into his fur coat. “One never knows. But going down a dark court to see criminals—”
“Do you think they are criminals?” asked his brother.
Rupert laughed stoutly143. “Giving orders to a subordinate to strangle a harmless stranger in a coal-cellar may strike you as a very blameless experiment, but—”
“Do you think they wanted to strangle the Major?” asked Basil, in the same distant and monotonous144 voice.
“My dear fellow, you've been asleep. Look at the letter.”
“I am looking at the letter,” said the mad judge calmly; though, as a matter of fact, he was looking at the fire. “I don't think it's the sort of letter one criminal would write to another.”
“My dear boy, you are glorious,” cried Rupert, turning round, with laughter in his blue bright eyes. “Your methods amaze me. Why, there is the letter. It is written, and it does give orders for a crime. You might as well say that the Nelson Column was not at all the sort of thing that was likely to be set up in Trafalgar Square.”
Basil Grant shook all over with a sort of silent laughter, but did not otherwise move.
“That's rather good,” he said; “but, of course, logic like that's not what is really wanted. It's a question of spiritual atmosphere. It's not a criminal letter.”
“It is. It's a matter of fact,” cried the other in an agony of reasonableness.
“Facts,” murmured Basil, like one mentioning some strange, far-off animals, “how facts obscure the truth. I may be silly—in fact, I'm off my head—but I never could believe in that man—what's his name, in those capital stories?—Sherlock Holmes. Every detail points to something, certainly; but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs145 on a tree. It's only the life of the tree that has unity146 and goes up—only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.”
“But what the deuce else can the letter be but criminal?”
“We have eternity147 to stretch our legs in,” replied the mystic. “It can be an infinity148 of things. I haven't seen any of them—I've only seen the letter. I look at that, and say it's not criminal.”
“Then what's the origin of it?”
“I haven't the vaguest idea.”
“Then why don't you accept the ordinary explanation?”
Basil continued for a little to glare at the coals, and seemed collecting his thoughts in a humble149 and even painful way. Then he said:
“Suppose you went out into the moonlight. Suppose you passed through silent, silvery streets and squares until you came into an open and deserted space, set with a few monuments, and you beheld one dressed as a ballet girl dancing in the argent glimmer150. And suppose you looked, and saw it was a man disguised. And suppose you looked again, and saw it was Lord Kitchener. What would you think?”
He paused a moment, and went on:
“You could not adopt the ordinary explanation. The ordinary explanation of putting on singular clothes is that you look nice in them; you would not think that Lord Kitchener dressed up like a ballet girl out of ordinary personal vanity. You would think it much more likely that he inherited a dancing madness from a great grandmother; or had been hypnotised at a seance; or threatened by a secret society with death if he refused the ordeal151. With Baden-Powell, say, it might be a bet—but not with Kitchener. I should know all that, because in my public days I knew him quite well. So I know that letter quite well, and criminals quite well. It's not a criminal's letter. It's all atmospheres.” And he closed his eyes and passed his hand over his forehead.
Rupert and the Major were regarding him with a mixture of respect and pity. The former said,
“Well, I'm going, anyhow, and shall continue to think—until your spiritual mystery turns up—that a man who sends a note recommending a crime, that is, actually a crime that is actually carried out, at least tentatively, is, in all probability, a little casual in his moral tastes. Can I have that revolver?”
“Certainly,” said Basil, getting up. “But I am coming with you.” And he flung an old cape133 or cloak round him, and took a sword-stick from the corner.
“You!” said Rupert, with some surprise, “you scarcely ever leave your hole to look at anything on the face of the earth.”
Basil fitted on a formidable old white hat.
“I scarcely ever,” he said, with an unconscious and colossal152 arrogance153, “hear of anything on the face of the earth that I do not understand at once, without going to see it.”
And he led the way out into the purple night.
We four swung along the flaring154 Lambeth streets, across Westminster Bridge, and along the Embankment in the direction of that part of Fleet Street which contained Tanner's Court. The erect155, black figure of Major Brown, seen from behind, was a quaint contrast to the hound-like stoop and flapping mantle156 of young Rupert Grant, who adopted, with childlike delight, all the dramatic poses of the detective of fiction. The finest among his many fine qualities was his boyish appetite for the colour and poetry of London. Basil, who walked behind, with his face turned blindly to the stars, had the look of a somnambulist.
Rupert paused at the corner of Tanner's Court, with a quiver of delight at danger, and gripped Basil's revolver in his great-coat pocket.
“Shall we go in now?” he asked.
“Not get police?” asked Major Brown, glancing sharply up and down the street.
“I am not sure,” answered Rupert, knitting his brows. “Of course, it's quite clear, the thing's all crooked157. But there are three of us, and—”
“I shouldn't get the police,” said Basil in a queer voice. Rupert glanced at him and stared hard.
“Basil,” he cried, “you're trembling. What's the matter—are you afraid?”
“Cold, perhaps,” said the Major, eyeing him. There was no doubt that he was shaking.
“You're laughing,” he cried. “I know that confounded, silent, shaky laugh of yours. What the deuce is the amusement, Basil? Here we are, all three of us, within a yard of a den13 of ruffians—”
“But I shouldn't call the police,” said Basil. “We four heroes are quite equal to a host,” and he continued to quake with his mysterious mirth.
Rupert turned with impatience159 and strode swiftly down the court, the rest of us following. When he reached the door of No. 14 he turned abruptly160, the revolver glittering in his hand.
“Stand close,” he said in the voice of a commander. “The scoundrel may be attempting an escape at this moment. We must fling open the door and rush in.”
The four of us cowered161 instantly under the archway, rigid162, except for the old judge and his convulsion of merriment.
“Now,” hissed Rupert Grant, turning his pale face and burning eyes suddenly over his shoulder, “when I say 'Four', follow me with a rush. If I say 'Hold him', pin the fellows down, whoever they are. If I say 'Stop', stop. I shall say that if there are more than three. If they attack us I shall empty my revolver on them. Basil, have your sword-stick ready. Now—one, two, three, four!”
With the sound of the word the door burst open, and we fell into the room like an invasion, only to stop dead.
The room, which was an ordinary and neatly163 appointed office, appeared, at the first glance, to be empty. But on a second and more careful glance, we saw seated behind a very large desk with pigeonholes164 and drawers of bewildering multiplicity, a small man with a black waxed moustache, and the air of a very average clerk, writing hard. He looked up as we came to a standstill.
“Did you knock?” he asked pleasantly. “I am sorry if I did not hear. What can I do for you?”
There was a doubtful pause, and then, by general consent, the Major himself, the victim of the outrage120, stepped forward.
The letter was in his hand, and he looked unusually grim.
“Is your name P. G. Northover?” he asked.
“That is my name,” replied the other, smiling.
“I think,” said Major Brown, with an increase in the dark glow of his face, “that this letter was written by you.” And with a loud clap he struck open the letter on the desk with his clenched165 fist. The man called Northover looked at it with unaffected interest and merely nodded.
“Well, sir,” said the Major, breathing hard, “what about that?”
“What about it, precisely,” said the man with the moustache.
“I am Major Brown,” said that gentleman sternly.
Northover bowed. “Pleased to meet you, sir. What have you to say to me?”
“Say!” cried the Major, loosing a sudden tempest; “why, I want this confounded thing settled. I want—”
“Certainly, sir,” said Northover, jumping up with a slight elevation166 of the eyebrows. “Will you take a chair for a moment.” And he pressed an electric bell just above him, which thrilled and tinkled167 in a room beyond. The Major put his hand on the back of the chair offered him, but stood chafing168 and beating the floor with his polished boot.
The next moment an inner glass door was opened, and a fair, weedy, young man, in a frock-coat, entered from within.
“Mr Hopson,” said Northover, “this is Major Brown. Will you please finish that thing for him I gave you this morning and bring it in?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr Hopson, and vanished like lightning.
“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said the egregious169 Northover, with his radiant smile, “if I continue to work until Mr Hopson is ready. I have some books that must be cleared up before I get away on my holiday tomorrow. And we all like a whiff of the country, don't we? Ha! ha!”
The criminal took up his pen with a childlike laugh, and a silence ensued; a placid170 and busy silence on the part of Mr P. G. Northover; a raging silence on the part of everybody else.
At length the scratching of Northover's pen in the stillness was mingled171 with a knock at the door, almost simultaneous with the turning of the handle, and Mr Hopson came in again with the same silent rapidity, placed a paper before his principal, and disappeared again.
The man at the desk pulled and twisted his spiky172 moustache for a few moments as he ran his eye up and down the paper presented to him. He took up his pen, with a slight, instantaneous frown, and altered something, muttering—“Careless.” Then he read it again with the same impenetrable reflectiveness, and finally handed it to the frantic173 Brown, whose hand was beating the devil's tattoo174 on the back of the chair.
The Major looked at it; whether he found it all right or not will appear later, but he found it like this:
Major Brown to P. G. Northover. £ s. d.
January 1, to account rendered 5 6 0
To hiring of man with trolley 0 5 0
To hire of house and garden for one day 1 0 0
To salary of Miss Jameson 1 0 0
To salary of Mr Plover 1 0 0
—————
Total £14 6 0
A Remittance179 will oblige.
“What,” said Brown, after a dead pause, and with eyes that seemed slowly rising out of his head, “What in heaven's name is this?”
“What is it?” repeated Northover, cocking his eyebrow140 with amusement. “It's your account, of course.”
“My account!” The Major's ideas appeared to be in a vague stampede. “My account! And what have I got to do with it?”
The Major's hand was still resting on the back of the chair as the words came. He scarcely stirred otherwise, but he lifted the chair bodily into the air with one hand and hurled181 it at Northover's head.
The legs crashed against the desk, so that Northover only got a blow on the elbow as he sprang up with clenched fists, only to be seized by the united rush of the rest of us. The chair had fallen clattering182 on the empty floor.
“Let me go, you scamps,” he shouted. “Let me—”
“Stand still,” cried Rupert authoritatively183. “Major Brown's action is excusable. The abominable184 crime you have attempted—”
“A customer has a perfect right,” said Northover hotly, “to question an alleged185 overcharge, but, confound it all, not to throw furniture.”
“What, in God's name, do you mean by your customers and overcharges?” shrieked186 Major Brown, whose keen feminine nature, steady in pain or danger, became almost hysterical187 in the presence of a long and exasperating188 mystery. “Who are you? I've never seen you or your insolent189 tomfool bills. I know one of your cursed brutes190 tried to choke me—”
“Mad,” said Northover, gazing blankly round; “all of them mad. I didn't know they travelled in quartettes.”
“Enough of this prevarication,” said Rupert; “your crimes are discovered. A policeman is stationed at the corner of the court. Though only a private detective myself, I will take the responsibility of telling you that anything you say—”
“Mad,” repeated Northover, with a weary air.
And at this moment, for the first time, there struck in among them the strange, sleepy voice of Basil Grant.
“Major Brown,” he said, “may I ask you a question?”
The Major turned his head with an increased bewilderment.
“You?” he cried; “certainly, Mr Grant.”
“Can you tell me,” said the mystic, with sunken head and lowering brow, as he traced a pattern in the dust with his sword-stick, “can you tell me what was the name of the man who lived in your house before you?”
The unhappy Major was only faintly more disturbed by this last and futile191 irrelevancy192, and he answered vaguely193:
“Yes, I think so; a man named Gurney something—a name with a hyphen—Gurney-Brown; that was it.”
“And when did the house change hands?” said Basil, looking up sharply. His strange eyes were burning brilliantly.
“I came in last month,” said the Major.
And at the mere word the criminal Northover suddenly fell into his great office chair and shouted with a volleying laughter.
“Oh! it's too perfect—it's too exquisite,” he gasped, beating the arms with his fists. He was laughing deafeningly; Basil Grant was laughing voicelessly; and the rest of us only felt that our heads were like weathercocks in a whirlwind.
“Confound it, Basil,” said Rupert, stamping. “If you don't want me to go mad and blow your metaphysical brains out, tell me what all this means.”
Northover rose.
“Permit me, sir, to explain,” he said. “And, first of all, permit me to apologize to you, Major Brown, for a most abominable and unpardonable blunder, which has caused you menace and inconvenience, in which, if you will allow me to say so, you have behaved with astonishing courage and dignity. Of course you need not trouble about the bill. We will stand the loss.” And, tearing the paper across, he flung the halves into the waste-paper basket and bowed.
Poor Brown's face was still a picture of distraction194. “But I don't even begin to understand,” he cried. “What bill? what blunder? what loss?”
Mr P. G. Northover advanced in the centre of the room, thoughtfully, and with a great deal of unconscious dignity. On closer consideration, there were apparent about him other things beside a screwed moustache, especially a lean, sallow face, hawk-like, and not without a careworn195 intelligence. Then he looked up abruptly.
“Do you know where you are, Major?” he said.
“You are standing,” replied Northover, “in the office of the Adventure and Romance Agency, Limited.”
“And what's that?” blankly inquired Brown.
The man of business leaned over the back of the chair, and fixed197 his dark eyes on the other's face.
“Major,” said he, “did you ever, as you walked along the empty street upon some idle afternoon, feel the utter hunger for something to happen—something, in the splendid words of Walt Whitman: 'Something pernicious and dread198; something far removed from a puny199 and pious200 life; something unproved; something in a trance; something loosed from its anchorage, and driving free.' Did you ever feel that?”
“Certainly not,” said the Major shortly.
“Then I must explain with more elaboration,” said Mr Northover, with a sigh. “The Adventure and Romance Agency has been started to meet a great modern desire. On every side, in conversation and in literature, we hear of the desire for a larger theatre of events for something to waylay201 us and lead us splendidly astray. Now the man who feels this desire for a varied202 life pays a yearly or a quarterly sum to the Adventure and Romance Agency; in return, the Adventure and Romance Agency undertakes to surround him with startling and weird203 events. As a man is leaving his front door, an excited sweep approaches him and assures him of a plot against his life; he gets into a cab, and is driven to an opium204 den; he receives a mysterious telegram or a dramatic visit, and is immediately in a vortex of incidents. A very picturesque205 and moving story is first written by one of the staff of distinguished novelists who are at present hard at work in the adjoining room. Yours, Major Brown (designed by our Mr Grigsby), I consider peculiarly forcible and pointed111; it is almost a pity you did not see the end of it. I need scarcely explain further the monstrous mistake. Your predecessor206 in your present house, Mr Gurney-Brown, was a subscriber207 to our agency, and our foolish clerks, ignoring alike the dignity of the hyphen and the glory of military rank, positively208 imagined that Major Brown and Mr Gurney-Brown were the same person. Thus you were suddenly hurled into the middle of another man's story.”
“How on earth does the thing work?” asked Rupert Grant, with bright and fascinated eyes.
“We believe that we are doing a noble work,” said Northover warmly. “It has continually struck us that there is no element in modern life that is more lamentable209 than the fact that the modern man has to seek all artistic210 existence in a sedentary state. If he wishes to float into fairyland, he reads a book; if he wishes to dash into the thick of battle, he reads a book; if he wishes to soar into heaven, he reads a book; if he wishes to slide down the banisters, he reads a book. We give him these visions, but we give him exercise at the same time, the necessity of leaping from wall to wall, of fighting strange gentlemen, of running down long streets from pursuers—all healthy and pleasant exercises. We give him a glimpse of that great morning world of Robin211 Hood23 or the Knights212 Errant, when one great game was played under the splendid sky. We give him back his childhood, that godlike time when we can act stories, be our own heroes, and at the same instant dance and dream.”
Basil gazed at him curiously. The most singular psychological discovery had been reserved to the end, for as the little business man ceased speaking he had the blazing eyes of a fanatic213.
Major Brown received the explanation with complete simplicity214 and good humour.
“Of course; awfully215 dense216, sir,” he said. “No doubt at all, the scheme excellent. But I don't think—” He paused a moment, and looked dreamily out of the window. “I don't think you will find me in it. Somehow, when one's seen—seen the thing itself, you know—blood and men screaming, one feels about having a little house and a little hobby; in the Bible, you know, 'There remaineth a rest'.”
Northover bowed. Then after a pause he said:
“Gentlemen, may I offer you my card. If any of the rest of you desire, at any time, to communicate with me, despite Major Brown's view of the matter—”
“I should be obliged for your card, sir,” said the Major, in his abrupt but courteous217 voice. “Pay for chair.”
The agent of Romance and Adventure handed his card, laughing.
It ran, “P. G. Northover, B.A., C.Q.T., Adventure and Romance Agency, 14 Tanner's Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth is 'C.Q.T.'?” asked Rupert Grant, looking over the Major's shoulder.
“Don't you know?” returned Northover. “Haven't you ever heard of the Club of Queer Trades?”
“There seems to be a confounded lot of funny things we haven't heard of,” said the little Major reflectively. “What's this one?”
“The Club of Queer Trades is a society consisting exclusively of people who have invented some new and curious way of making money. I was one of the earliest members.”
“You deserve to be,” said Basil, taking up his great white hat, with a smile, and speaking for the last time that evening.
When they had passed out the Adventure and Romance agent wore a queer smile, as he trod down the fire and locked up his desk. “A fine chap, that Major; when one hasn't a touch of the poet one stands some chance of being a poem. But to think of such a clockwork little creature of all people getting into the nets of one of Grigsby's tales,” and he laughed out aloud in the silence.
Just as the laugh echoed away, there came a sharp knock at the door. An owlish head, with dark moustaches, was thrust in, with deprecating and somewhat absurd inquiry218.
“What! back again, Major?” cried Northover in surprise. “What can I do for you?”
“It's horribly absurd,” he said. “Something must have got started in me that I never knew before. But upon my soul I feel the most desperate desire to know the end of it all.”
“The end of it all?”
“Yes,” said the Major. “'Jackals', and the title-deeds, and 'Death to Major Brown'.”
The agent's face grew grave, but his eyes were amused.
“I am terribly sorry, Major,” said he, “but what you ask is impossible. I don't know any one I would sooner oblige than you; but the rules of the agency are strict. The Adventures are confidential221; you are an outsider; I am not allowed to let you know an inch more than I can help. I do hope you understand—”
“There is no one,” said Brown, “who understands discipline better than I do. Thank you very much. Good night.”
And the little man withdrew for the last time.
He married Miss Jameson, the lady with the red hair and the green garments. She was an actress, employed (with many others) by the Romance Agency; and her marriage with the prim45 old veteran caused some stir in her languid and intellectualized set. She always replied very quietly that she had met scores of men who acted splendidly in the charades222 provided for them by Northover, but that she had only met one man who went down into a coal-cellar when he really thought it contained a murderer.
The Major and she are living as happily as birds, in an absurd villa, and the former has taken to smoking. Otherwise he is unchanged—except, perhaps, there are moments when, alert and full of feminine unselfishness as the Major is by nature, he falls into a trance of abstraction. Then his wife recognizes with a concealed223 smile, by the blind look in his blue eyes, that he is wondering what were the title-deeds, and why he was not allowed to mention jackals. But, like so many old soldiers, Brown is religious, and believes that he will realize the rest of those purple adventures in a better world.
该作者的其它作品
《The Napoleon of Notting Hill》
《THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN布朗神父智慧》
该作者的其它作品
《The Napoleon of Notting Hill》
《THE WISDOM OF FATHER BROWN布朗神父智慧》
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1
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gargantuan
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| adj.巨大的，庞大的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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sardine
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| n.[C]沙丁鱼 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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coalesced
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| v.联合，合并( coalesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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thoroughly
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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defalcation
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| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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pulverizing
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| v.将…弄碎( pulverize的现在分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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martinet
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| n.要求严格服从纪律的人 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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82
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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83
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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84
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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85
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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86
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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87
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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88
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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89
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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90
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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91
disparaged
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| v.轻视( disparage的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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92
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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93
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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95
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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96
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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97
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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98
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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99
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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100
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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101
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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102
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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103
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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104
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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105
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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106
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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107
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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108
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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109
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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110
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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111
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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112
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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113
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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114
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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115
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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116
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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117
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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118
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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119
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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120
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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121
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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122
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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123
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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124
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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125
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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126
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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127
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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128
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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129
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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130
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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131
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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132
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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133
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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134
sprawls
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| n.（城市）杂乱无序拓展的地区( sprawl的名词复数 )；随意扩展；蔓延物v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的第三人称单数 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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135
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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136
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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137
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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139
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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140
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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141
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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142
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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143
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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144
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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145
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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146
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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147
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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148
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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149
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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150
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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151
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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152
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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153
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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154
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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155
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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156
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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157
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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158
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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159
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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160
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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161
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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162
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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163
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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164
pigeonholes
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| n.鸽舍出入口( pigeonhole的名词复数 )；小房间；文件架上的小间隔v.把…搁在分类架上( pigeonhole的第三人称单数 )；把…留在记忆中；缓办；把…隔成小格 | |
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165
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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167
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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168
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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169
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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170
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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171
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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172
spiky
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| adj.长而尖的，大钉似的 | |
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173
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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174
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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175
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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176
embedding
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| 把…嵌入，埋入( embed的现在分词 )； 植入； 埋置； 包埋 | |
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177
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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178
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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180
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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181
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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182
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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183
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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184
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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185
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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186
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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188
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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189
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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190
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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191
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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192
irrelevancy
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| n.不恰当，离题，不相干的事物 | |
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193
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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194
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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195
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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196
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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197
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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198
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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199
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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200
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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201
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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202
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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203
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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204
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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205
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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206
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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207
subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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208
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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209
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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210
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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211
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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212
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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213
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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214
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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215
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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216
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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217
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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218
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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219
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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220
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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221
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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222
charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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223
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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