章节正文
Like as not he'll sling you half a crown when you come away -- that is,
if you work it all right. Now try to think of something to say to him,
and make yourself a bit interesting -- if you possibly can.
Tell him about the fight we saw back at the pub. the other day.
He might know some of the chaps. This is a sleepy hole,
and there ain't much news knocking round. . . . I wish I could go in myself,
but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left
the last time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides,
I came away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel
a bit sore about it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road.
Come on now, wake up!"
"Bet I'll get a quart," said Smith, brightening up, "and some tucker
for it to wash down."
"If you don't," said Steelman, "I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle;
fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub.
with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does.
It looks much better to come out with a couple of full ones.
That's what you've got to do. Now, come along."
Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road again,
and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait.
Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as he walked --
repeating his "lines" to himself, so as to be sure of remembering
all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and adding,
with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches of his own,
which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman's advice and warning.
"I'll tell him (this) -- I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss,
I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you as far
as that's concerned, but," &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling to himself,
Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was small,
and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he could muster,
eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt considered
the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar,
said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent,
and hearty:
"Good-day, boss!"
But it wasn't a "boss". It was about the hardest-faced old woman
that Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands.
"I -- I beg your pardon, missus," stammered poor Smith.
It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time.
He and Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time,
and laid their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she
-- and one like this -- to deal with never entered into their calculations.
Smith had no time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so,
without the assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature.
"I -- I beg your pardon, missus," he stammered.
Painful pause. She sized him up.
"Well, what do you want?"
"Well, missus -- I -- the fact is -- will you give me a bottle of beer
for fourpence?"
"Wha--what?"
"I mean ----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left,
and -- I've got a mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so,
in a bottle, for that. I mean -- anyway, you might let us have a pint.
I'm very sorry to bother you, missus."
But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not!
All her drinks were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent,
and a family to keep. It wouldn't pay out there -- it wasn't worth her while.
It wouldn't pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c.
"Well, missus," poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation,
"give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've -- I've got a mate outside."
And he put the four coppers on the bar.
"Have you got a bottle?"
"No -- but ----"
"If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me
to give you a bottle as well as a drink."
"Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly."
She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately
measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle,
which she handed to Smith without a cork.
Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly
that he should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city,
where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to know?
He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same.
What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say;
he already heard him, in imagination, saying: "You're a mug, Smith --
Smith, you ARE a mug."
But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst
by seeing Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story
with an air of gentle sadness, even as a stern father
might listen to the voluntaryconfession of a wayward child;
then he held the bottle up to the fading light of departing day,
looked through it (the bottle), and said:
"Well -- it ain't worth while dividing it."
Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left boot
into the hard road.
"Here, Smith," said Steelman, handing him the bottle, "drink it, old man;
you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight of mine.
I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course,
YOU couldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith.
I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out."
Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from
his surprise, drank.
"I promised to take back the bottle," he said, with the ghost of a smile.
Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence.
"Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while."
And they tramped on in the gathering starlight.
How Steelman told his Story
It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith
into his confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs.
"You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, Smith --
when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief.
You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are
that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time --
that's the main reason why I don't mind talking to you.
You ought to consider yourself honoured; it ain't every man
I take into my confidence, even that far."
Smith rubbed his head.
"I'd sooner talk to you -- or a stump -- any day than to one of those silent,
suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen
to everything you say -- sense and rubbish alike -- as if you were trying
to get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man
who listens to me all the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe.
He isn't to be trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours,
and there's too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind,
and no stone -- though I'd manage it once, anyhow."
"How'd you do it?" asked Smith.
"There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance,
and find a grindstone -- or make one of the other man's axe.
But the last way is too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work --
besides, it doesn't pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride,
but I've got none. I had once, when I was younger, but it -- well,
it nearly killed me, so I dropped it.
"You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do;
he'll make a safe mate -- or a good grindstone."
Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire,
with the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question
or the trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand
and watched Smith thoughtfully.
"I -- I say, Steely," exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up
and scratching his head and blinking harder than ever -- "wha--what am I?"
"How do you mean?"
"Am I the axe or the grindstone?"
"Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith.
Well, you turn the grindstone and I grind." Smith settled.
"If you could grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind,
I'd never go against the interests of the firm -- that's fair enough,
isn't it?"
"Ye-es," admitted Smith; "I suppose so."
"So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years,
off and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing,
for instance -- and so might you."
Smith began to look alarmed.
"Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us -- such things
have happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death
might mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep,
and cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble,
and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle;
or I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me out --
though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and cut you,
or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out
after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a mug,
and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know.
You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded)
and then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me)
for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become
a respected and worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came
within ten miles of me or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up
for vagrancy, or soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail.
I'd have to fix you -- so I give you fair warning. Or we might get
into some desperate fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either)
when I'd be obliged to sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort,
and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen.
"Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years,
and I've found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part
-- as we will sooner or later -- and you survive, I'll give you some advice
from my own experience.
"In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again
-- and it wouldn't do you much harm -- get born with the strength of a bullock
and the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains --
at least no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin
like tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart.
"Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it,
clear out on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can.
I hung on.
"If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time
when you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you
might take it into his head to do) -- don't do it. They'll get a down on you
if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's no dislike
like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude nor civility
in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character.
(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.)
There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of,
the mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started
by his own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account.
Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends.
"If you ever go to work -- and miracles have happened before --
no matter what your wages are, or how you are treated,
you can take it for granted that you're sweated; act on that
to the best of your ability, or you'll never rise in the world.
If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be found a comfortable seat
in a good place; but if you pay the chances are the ticket clerk
will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for standing room.
The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world;
anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays.
If you try to be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later;
if you try to be too honest the chances are that the bailiff
will get into your house -- if you have one -- and make a holy show of you
before the neighbours. The honest softy is more often
mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, than the out-and-out scamp;
and the man that tells the truth too much is set down
as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low and roost high,
if you work it all right. Now try to think of something to say to him,
and make yourself a bit interesting -- if you possibly can.
Tell him about the fight we saw back at the pub. the other day.
He might know some of the chaps. This is a sleepy hole,
and there ain't much news knocking round. . . . I wish I could go in myself,
but he's sure to remember ME. I'm afraid he got left
the last time I stayed there (so did one or two others); and, besides,
I came away without saying good-bye to him, and he might feel
a bit sore about it. That's the worst of travelling on the old road.
Come on now, wake up!"
"Bet I'll get a quart," said Smith, brightening up, "and some tucker
for it to wash down."
"If you don't," said Steelman, "I'll stoush you. Never mind the bottle;
fling it away. It doesn't look well for a traveller to go into a pub.
with an empty bottle in his hand. A real swagman never does.
It looks much better to come out with a couple of full ones.
That's what you've got to do. Now, come along."
Steelman turned off into a lane, cut across the paddocks to the road again,
and waited for Smith. He hadn't long to wait.
Smith went on towards the public-house, rehearsing his part as he walked --
repeating his "lines" to himself, so as to be sure of remembering
all that Steelman had told him to say to the landlord, and adding,
with what he considered appropriate gestures, some fancy touches of his own,
which he determined to throw in in spite of Steelman's advice and warning.
"I'll tell him (this) -- I'll tell him (that). Well, look here, boss,
I'll say you're pretty right and I quite agree with you as far
as that's concerned, but," &c. And so, murmuring and mumbling to himself,
Smith reached the hotel. The day was late, and the bar was small,
and low, and dark. Smith walked in with all the assurance he could muster,
eased down his swag in a corner in what he no doubt considered
the true professional style, and, swinging round to the bar,
said in a loud voice which he intended to be cheerful, independent,
and hearty:
"Good-day, boss!"
But it wasn't a "boss". It was about the hardest-faced old woman
that Smith had ever seen. The pub. had changed hands.
"I -- I beg your pardon, missus," stammered poor Smith.
It was a knock-down blow for Smith. He couldn't come to time.
He and Steelman had had a landlord in their minds all the time,
and laid their plans accordingly; the possibility of having a she
-- and one like this -- to deal with never entered into their calculations.
Smith had no time to reorganise, even if he had had the brains to do so,
without the assistance of his mate's knowledge of human nature.
"I -- I beg your pardon, missus," he stammered.
Painful pause. She sized him up.
"Well, what do you want?"
"Well, missus -- I -- the fact is -- will you give me a bottle of beer
for fourpence?"
"Wha--what?"
"I mean ----. The fact is, we've only got fourpence left,
and -- I've got a mate outside, and you might let us have a quart or so,
in a bottle, for that. I mean -- anyway, you might let us have a pint.
I'm very sorry to bother you, missus."
But she couldn't do it. No. Certainly not. Decidedly not!
All her drinks were sixpence. She had her license to pay, and the rent,
and a family to keep. It wouldn't pay out there -- it wasn't worth her while.
It wouldn't pay the cost of carting the liquor out, &c., &c.
"Well, missus," poor Smith blurted out at last, in sheer desperation,
"give me what you can in a bottle for this. I've -- I've got a mate outside."
And he put the four coppers on the bar.
"Have you got a bottle?"
"No -- but ----"
"If I give you one, will you bring it back? You can't expect me
to give you a bottle as well as a drink."
"Yes, mum; I'll bring it back directly."
She reached out a bottle from under the bar, and very deliberately
measured out a little over a pint and poured it into the bottle,
which she handed to Smith without a cork.
Smith went his way without rejoicing. It struck him forcibly
that he should have saved the money until they reached Petone, or the city,
where Steelman would be sure to get a decent drink. But how was he to know?
He had chanced it, and lost; Steelman might have done the same.
What troubled Smith most was the thought of what Steelman would say;
he already heard him, in imagination, saying: "You're a mug, Smith --
Smith, you ARE a mug."
But Steelman didn't say much. He was prepared for the worst
by seeing Smith come along so soon. He listened to his story
with an air of gentle sadness, even as a stern father
might listen to the voluntaryconfession of a wayward child;
then he held the bottle up to the fading light of departing day,
looked through it (the bottle), and said:
"Well -- it ain't worth while dividing it."
Smith's heart shot right down through a hole in the sole of his left boot
into the hard road.
"Here, Smith," said Steelman, handing him the bottle, "drink it, old man;
you want it. It wasn't altogether your fault; it was an oversight of mine.
I didn't bargain for a woman of that kind, and, of course,
YOU couldn't be expected to think of it. Drink it! Drink it down, Smith.
I'll manage to work the oracle before this night is out."
Smith was forced to believe his ears, and, recovering from
his surprise, drank.
"I promised to take back the bottle," he said, with the ghost of a smile.
Steelman took the bottle by the neck and broke it on the fence.
"Come on, Smith; I'll carry the swag for a while."
And they tramped on in the gathering starlight.
How Steelman told his Story
It was Steelman's humour, in some of his moods, to take Smith
into his confidence, as some old bushmen do their dogs.
"You're nearly as good as an intelligent sheep-dog to talk to, Smith --
when a man gets tired of thinking to himself and wants a relief.
You're a bit of a mug and a good deal of an idiot, and the chances are
that you don't know what I'm driving at half the time --
that's the main reason why I don't mind talking to you.
You ought to consider yourself honoured; it ain't every man
I take into my confidence, even that far."
Smith rubbed his head.
"I'd sooner talk to you -- or a stump -- any day than to one of those silent,
suspicious, self-contained, worldly-wise chaps that listen
to everything you say -- sense and rubbish alike -- as if you were trying
to get them to take shares in a mine. I drop the man
who listens to me all the time and doesn't seem to get bored. He isn't safe.
He isn't to be trusted. He mostly wants to grind his axe against yours,
and there's too little profit for me where there are two axes to grind,
and no stone -- though I'd manage it once, anyhow."
"How'd you do it?" asked Smith.
"There are several ways. Either you join forces, for instance,
and find a grindstone -- or make one of the other man's axe.
But the last way is too slow, and, as I said, takes too much brain-work --
besides, it doesn't pay. It might satisfy your vanity or pride,
but I've got none. I had once, when I was younger, but it -- well,
it nearly killed me, so I dropped it.
"You can mostly trust the man who wants to talk more than you do;
he'll make a safe mate -- or a good grindstone."
Smith scratched the nape of his neck and sat blinking at the fire,
with the puzzled expression of a woman pondering over a life-question
or the trimming of a hat. Steelman took his chin in his hand
and watched Smith thoughtfully.
"I -- I say, Steely," exclaimed Smith, suddenly, sitting up
and scratching his head and blinking harder than ever -- "wha--what am I?"
"How do you mean?"
"Am I the axe or the grindstone?"
"Oh! your brain seems in extra good working order to-night, Smith.
Well, you turn the grindstone and I grind." Smith settled.
"If you could grind better than I, I'd turn the stone and let YOU grind,
I'd never go against the interests of the firm -- that's fair enough,
isn't it?"
"Ye-es," admitted Smith; "I suppose so."
"So do I. Now, Smith, we've got along all right together for years,
off and on, but you never know what might happen. I might stop breathing,
for instance -- and so might you."
Smith began to look alarmed.
"Poetical justice might overtake one or both of us -- such things
have happened before, though not often. Or, say, misfortune or death
might mistake us for honest, hard-working mugs with big families to keep,
and cut us off in the bloom of all our wisdom. You might get into trouble,
and, in that case, I'd be bound to leave you there, on principle;
or I might get into trouble, and you wouldn't have the brains to get me out --
though I know you'd be mug enough to try. I might make a rise and cut you,
or you might be misled into showing some spirit, and clear out
after I'd stoushed you for it. You might get tired of me calling you a mug,
and bossing you and making a tool or convenience of you, you know.
You might go in for honest graft (you were always a bit weak-minded)
and then I'd have to wash my hands of you (unless you agreed to keep me)
for an irreclaimable mug. Or it might suit me to become
a respected and worthy fellow townsman, and then, if you came
within ten miles of me or hinted that you ever knew me, I'd have you up
for vagrancy, or soliciting alms, or attempting to levy blackmail.
I'd have to fix you -- so I give you fair warning. Or we might get
into some desperate fix (and it needn't be very desperate, either)
when I'd be obliged to sacrifice you for my own personal safety, comfort,
and convenience. Hundreds of things might happen.
"Well, as I said, we've been at large together for some years,
and I've found you sober, trustworthy, and honest; so, in case we do part
-- as we will sooner or later -- and you survive, I'll give you some advice
from my own experience.
"In the first place: If you ever happen to get born again
-- and it wouldn't do you much harm -- get born with the strength of a bullock
and the hide of one as well, and a swelled head, and no brains --
at least no more brains than you've got now. I was born with a skin
like tissue-paper, and brains; also a heart.
"Get born without relatives, if you can: if you can't help it,
clear out on your own just as soon after you're born as you possibly can.
I hung on.
"If you have relations, and feel inclined to help them any time
when you're flush (and there's no telling what a weak-minded man like you
might take it into his head to do) -- don't do it. They'll get a down on you
if you do. It only causes family troubles and bitterness. There's no dislike
like that of a dependant. You'll get neither gratitude nor civility
in the end, and be lucky if you escape with a character.
(You've got NO character, Smith; I'm only just supposing you have.)
There's no hatred too bitter for, and nothing too bad to be said of,
the mug who turns. The worst yarns about a man are generally started
by his own tribe, and the world believes them at once on that very account.
Well, the first thing to do in life is to escape from your friends.
"If you ever go to work -- and miracles have happened before --
no matter what your wages are, or how you are treated,
you can take it for granted that you're sweated; act on that
to the best of your ability, or you'll never rise in the world.
If you go to see a show on the nod you'll be found a comfortable seat
in a good place; but if you pay the chances are the ticket clerk
will tell you a lie, and you'll have to hustle for standing room.
The man that doesn't ante gets the best of this world;
anything he'll stand is good enough for the man that pays.
If you try to be too sharp you'll get into gaol sooner or later;
if you try to be too honest the chances are that the bailiff
will get into your house -- if you have one -- and make a holy show of you
before the neighbours. The honest softy is more often
mistaken for a swindler, and accused of being one, than the out-and-out scamp;
and the man that tells the truth too much is set down
as an irreclaimable liar. But most of the time crow low and roost high,
- landlord [´lændlɔ:d]
n.地主；房东；店主 (初中英语单词) - professional [prə´feʃənəl] a.职业的 n.自由职业 (初中英语单词)
- cheerful [´tʃiəful] a.快乐的；高兴的 (初中英语单词)
- pardon [´pɑ:dən] n.&vt.原谅；饶恕；赦免 (初中英语单词)
- accordingly [ə´kɔ:diŋli] ad.因此；从而；依照 (初中英语单词)
- possibility [,pɔsə´biliti] n.可能(性)；希望；前途 (初中英语单词)
- assistance [ə´sistəns] n.协作；援助；帮助 (初中英语单词)
- bother [´bɔðə] v.打扰 n.麻烦(事) (初中英语单词)
- liquor [´likə] n.酒类；(溶)液 (初中英语单词)
- imagination [i,mædʒi´neiʃən] n.想象(力) (初中英语单词)
- altogether [,ɔ:ltə´geðə] ad.完全；总而言之 (初中英语单词)
- bargain [´bɑ:gin] n.买卖合同 v.议(价) (初中英语单词)
- humour [´hju:mə] n.幽默，诙谐 (初中英语单词)
- intelligent [in´telidʒənt] a.聪明的；理智的 (初中英语单词)
- mostly [´məustli] ad.主要地；多半；通常 (初中英语单词)
- vanity [´væniti] n.虚荣；自负；空虚 (初中英语单词)
- working [´wə:kiŋ] a.工人的；劳动的 (初中英语单词)
- instance [´instəns] n.例子，实例，例证 (初中英语单词)
- wisdom [´wizdəm] n.智慧，聪明，才智 (初中英语单词)
- worthy [´wə:ði] a.有价值的；值得的 (初中英语单词)
- desperate [´despərit] a.拼死的；绝望的 (初中英语单词)
- survive [sə´vaiv] vt.幸存；残存 (初中英语单词)
- gratitude [´grætitju:d] n.感激，感谢 (初中英语单词)
- character [´kæriktə] n.特性；性质；人物；字 (初中英语单词)
- hatred [´heitrid] n.憎恨，敌意 (初中英语单词)
- ability [ə´biliti] n.(办事)能力；才干 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- sleepy [´sli:pi] a.困的，想睡的 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- appropriate [ə´prəupri-it, ə´prəuprieit] a.适宜的 vt.私占；拨给 (高中英语单词)
- concerned [kən´sə:nd] a.有关的；担心的 (高中英语单词)
- assurance [ə´ʃuərəns] n.保证；自信；信任 (高中英语单词)
- missus [´misəz] n.(已婚的)...夫人 (高中英语单词)
- decidedly [di´saididli] ad.坚决地，果断地 (高中英语单词)
- rejoicing [ri´dʒɔisiŋ] n.高兴；欢呼 (高中英语单词)
- decent [´di:sənt] a.体面的，正派的 (高中英语单词)
- seeing [si:iŋ] see的现在分词 n.视觉 (高中英语单词)
- sadness [´sædnis] n.悲哀；悲痛；凄惨 (高中英语单词)
- confession [kən´feʃən] n.招供；认错；交待 (高中英语单词)
- oracle [´ɔrəkl] n.预言(者)；圣理名言 (高中英语单词)
- overtake [,əuvə´teik] vt.追上；赶上 (高中英语单词)
- misfortune [mis´fɔ:tʃən] n.不幸；灾祸 (高中英语单词)
- convenience [kən´vi:niəns] n.方便；适当的机会 (高中英语单词)
- bitterness [´bitənis] n.苦味；辛酸；苦难 (高中英语单词)
- sixpence [´sikspəns] n.六便士(硬币) (英语四级单词)
- voluntary [´vɔləntəri] a.自愿的；义务的 (英语四级单词)
- gathering [´gæðəriŋ] n.集会，聚集 (英语四级单词)
- rubbish [´rʌbiʃ] n.垃圾；碎屑；废话 (英语四级单词)
- vagrancy [´veigrənsi] n.漂泊，流浪 (英语四级单词)
- warning [´wɔ:niŋ] n.警告；前兆 a.预告的 (英语四级单词)
- hustle [´hʌsəl] v.猛挤；催促 n.乱堆 (英语四级单词)
- wayward [´weiwəd] a.任性的；不易控制的 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- dependant [di´pendənt] n.被赡养者；依赖别人 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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