章节正文
And after tea you have to sit still while the precious minutes are wasted,
and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the fidget
to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know some girls.
And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential,
and seizes an opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is
now that he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society
(or the Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights.
Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier
that you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again
by a glimpse of Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit;
but when you are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming
a bit down the street with you, he says he thinks he will
in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone,
that he makes you mad.
At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. Brown,
whenever you're passing," and to "don't forget to call," and thanking them
for their assurance that they'll "be always glad to see you," and telling them
that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself,
and are awfully sorry you couldn't stay -- you get away with Tom.
You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner
and down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation
is mostly common-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting on
all this time, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?"
and so on.
But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind
to chance the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink,
he throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder,
says "Come on," and disappears sideways into a pub.
. . . . .
"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me."
"Well, here's luck, old man." "Here's luck." You take a drink,
and look over your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face,
and it makes you glad -- you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years.
Then something tickles him -- your expression, perhaps,
or a recollection of the past -- and he sets down his glass on the bar
and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile
that old mates favour each other with over the tops of their glasses
when they meet again after years. It is eloquent, because of the memories
that give it birth.
"Here's another. Do you remember ----? Do you remember ----?"
Oh, it all comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit;
just the same good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again!
"It's just like old times," says Tom, after three or four more drinks.
. . . . .
And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly.
You get as "glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter,
and have a better "time" than any of the times you had in the old days.
And you see Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare,
and he reckons he'll get it hot from his people -- which no doubt he will --
and he explains that they are very particular up at home
-- church people, you know -- and, of course, especially if he's married,
it's understood between you that you'd better not call for him up at home
after this -- at least, not till things have cooled down a bit.
It's always the way. The friend of the husband always gets the blame
in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a yarn to tell them,
and you aren't to "say anything different" in case you run against
any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for next Saturday night,
and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. But he MIGHT
have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls somewhere;
and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be careful, and wait
-- at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is arranged --
for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't be able
to get off at all.
And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the "old times" have come back
once more.
. . . . .
But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance
to fall in love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be
another and a totally different story to tell.
II.
Jack Ellis
Things are going well with you. You have escaped from "the track",
so to speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city.
Well, while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days
-- VERY other days -- call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack.
He knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting;
he acts as though he thinks you might cut him -- which, of course,
if you are a true mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing.
His coat is yellow and frayed, his hat is battered and green,
his trousers "gone" in various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots
burst and innocent of polish. You try not to notice these things
-- or rather, not to seem to notice them -- but you cannot help doing so,
and you are afraid he'll notice that you see these things,
and put a wrong construction on it. How men will misunderstand each other!
You greet him with more than the necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety
to set him at his ease and make him believe that nothing -- not even money --
can make a difference in your friendship, you over-act the business;
and presently you are afraid that he'll notice that too,
and put a wrong construction on it. You wish that your collar
was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known you would meet him,
you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion.
You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed --
you are almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think
you are looking at his shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink,
but he doesn't respond so heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days;
he doesn't like drinking with anybody when he isn't "fixed", as he calls it --
when he can't shout.
It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was
plenty of "stuff" in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to you
through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now,
but he is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride.
There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in those days;
but times have changed -- your lives have drifted too widely apart --
you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without intending to,
makes you feel that it is so.
You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat,
as far as Jack is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't "feel on",
and presently he escapes under plea of an engagement,
and promises to see you again.
And you wish that the time was come when no one could have
more or less to spend than another.
. . . . .
P.S. -- I met an old mate of that description once,
and so successfully persuaded him out of his beastly pride
that he borrowed two pounds off me till Monday. I never got it back since,
and I want it badly at the present time. In future I'll leave old mates
with their pride unimpaired.
Two Larrikins
"Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care.
Y'orter to do something."
Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post,
and scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room
opening into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing --
a thin, sallow girl with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy
as her surroundings.
"Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?"
She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny,
unfinished articles of clothing, and bent to her work.
"But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie," she said, quietly.
"Where am I to get the money from?"
"Who asked yer to get it?"
She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman
who has determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments
that may be brought against it.
"Well, wot more do yer want?" demanded Stowsher, impatiently.
She bent lower. "Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?"
"Wot next?" asked Stowsher, sulkily -- he had half suspected what was coming.
Then, with an impatient oath, "You must be gettin' ratty."
She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes.
"It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him,
and keep him clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different
from all the other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty,
sickly little brats out there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would.
I'll look after him night and day, and bring him up well and strong.
We'd train his little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able
to knock 'em all out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much,
and I'd work hard and be careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him,
too, Ernie -- I know you would."
Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was "touched",
or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent.
"Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?" she asked, presently.
Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: "Well -- wot o' that?"
"You came into the bar-parlour at the `Cricketers' Arms'
and caught a push of 'em chyacking your old man."
"Well, I altered that."
"I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another,
and two was bigger than you."
"Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest," said Stowsher,
softening at the recollection.
"And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old mother
like a dog ----"
"Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!" he reflected.
"Only," he added, "the old woman might have had the knocker
to keep away from the lush while I was in quod. . . . But wot's all this
got to do with it?"
"HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie," she said softly,
"when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you."
The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher;
not that he felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated
to be drawn into a conversation that might be considered "soft".
"Oh, stow that!" he said, comfortingly. "Git on yer hat,
and I'll take yer for a trot."
She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that
it was not good policy to betrayeagerness in response
to an invitation from Ernie.
"But -- you know -- I don't like to go out like this. You can't --
you wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!"
"Why not? Wot rot!"
"The fellows would see me, and -- and ----"
"And . . . wot?"
"They might notice ----"
"Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't?
Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day."
They walked towards Flagstaff Hill.
One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with "Wotcher, Stowsher!"
"Not too stinkin'," replied Stowsher. "Soak yer heads."
"Stowsher's goin' to stick," said one privately.
"An' so he orter," said another. "Wish I had the chanst."
The two turned up a steep lane.
"Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know."
"All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?"
She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct,
after the manner of women when they have gained their point by words.
Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. "Gorblime!" he said,
"I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!"
When he left her at the door he said: "Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a quid.
Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the mornin',
and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night."
Still she seemed troubled and uneasy.
"Ernie."
"Well. Wot now?"
and listen and sympathize, while all the time you are on the fidget
to get out with Tom, and go down to a private bar where you know some girls.
And perhaps by-and-bye the old lady gets confidential,
and seizes an opportunity to tell you what a good steady young fellow Tom is
now that he never touches drink, and belongs to a temperance society
(or the Y.M.C.A.), and never stays out of nights.
Consequently you feel worse than ever, and lonelier, and sorrier
that you wasted your time coming. You are encouraged again
by a glimpse of Tom putting on a clean collar and fixing himself up a bit;
but when you are ready to go, and ask him if he's coming
a bit down the street with you, he says he thinks he will
in such a disinterested, don't-mind-if-I-do sort of tone,
that he makes you mad.
At last, after promising to "drop in again, Mr. Brown,
whenever you're passing," and to "don't forget to call," and thanking them
for their assurance that they'll "be always glad to see you," and telling them
that you've spent a very pleasant evening and enjoyed yourself,
and are awfully sorry you couldn't stay -- you get away with Tom.
You don't say much to each other till you get round the corner
and down the street a bit, and then for a while your conversation
is mostly common-place, such as, "Well, how have you been getting on
all this time, Tom?" "Oh, all right. How have you been getting on?"
and so on.
But presently, and perhaps just as you have made up your mind
to chance the alleged temperance business and ask Tom in to have a drink,
he throws a glance up and down the street, nudges your shoulder,
says "Come on," and disappears sideways into a pub.
. . . . .
"What's yours, Tom?" "What's yours, Joe?" "The same for me."
"Well, here's luck, old man." "Here's luck." You take a drink,
and look over your glass at Tom. Then the old smile spreads over his face,
and it makes you glad -- you could swear to Tom's grin in a hundred years.
Then something tickles him -- your expression, perhaps,
or a recollection of the past -- and he sets down his glass on the bar
and laughs. Then you laugh. Oh, there's no smile like the smile
that old mates favour each other with over the tops of their glasses
when they meet again after years. It is eloquent, because of the memories
that give it birth.
"Here's another. Do you remember ----? Do you remember ----?"
Oh, it all comes back again like a flash. Tom hasn't changed a bit;
just the same good-hearted, jolly idiot he always was. Old times back again!
"It's just like old times," says Tom, after three or four more drinks.
. . . . .
And so you make a night of it and get uproariously jolly.
You get as "glorious" as Bobby Burns did in the part of Tam O'Shanter,
and have a better "time" than any of the times you had in the old days.
And you see Tom as nearly home in the morning as you dare,
and he reckons he'll get it hot from his people -- which no doubt he will --
and he explains that they are very particular up at home
-- church people, you know -- and, of course, especially if he's married,
it's understood between you that you'd better not call for him up at home
after this -- at least, not till things have cooled down a bit.
It's always the way. The friend of the husband always gets the blame
in cases like this. But Tom fixes up a yarn to tell them,
and you aren't to "say anything different" in case you run against
any of them. And he fixes up an appointment with you for next Saturday night,
and he'll get there if he gets divorced for it. But he MIGHT
have to take the wife out shopping, or one of the girls somewhere;
and if you see her with him you've got to lay low, and be careful, and wait
-- at another hour and place, perhaps, all of which is arranged --
for if she sees you she'll smell a rat at once, and he won't be able
to get off at all.
And so, as far as you and Tom are concerned, the "old times" have come back
once more.
. . . . .
But, of course (and we almost forgot it), you might chance
to fall in love with one of Tom's sisters, in which case there would be
another and a totally different story to tell.
II.
Jack Ellis
Things are going well with you. You have escaped from "the track",
so to speak, and are in a snug, comfortable little billet in the city.
Well, while doing the block you run against an old mate of other days
-- VERY other days -- call him Jack Ellis. Things have gone hard with Jack.
He knows you at once, but makes no advance towards a greeting;
he acts as though he thinks you might cut him -- which, of course,
if you are a true mate, you have not the slightest intention of doing.
His coat is yellow and frayed, his hat is battered and green,
his trousers "gone" in various places, his linen very cloudy, and his boots
burst and innocent of polish. You try not to notice these things
-- or rather, not to seem to notice them -- but you cannot help doing so,
and you are afraid he'll notice that you see these things,
and put a wrong construction on it. How men will misunderstand each other!
You greet him with more than the necessary enthusiasm. In your anxiety
to set him at his ease and make him believe that nothing -- not even money --
can make a difference in your friendship, you over-act the business;
and presently you are afraid that he'll notice that too,
and put a wrong construction on it. You wish that your collar
was not so clean, nor your clothes so new. Had you known you would meet him,
you would have put on some old clothes for the occasion.
You are both embarrassed, but it is YOU who feel ashamed --
you are almost afraid to look at him lest he'll think
you are looking at his shabbiness. You ask him in to have a drink,
but he doesn't respond so heartily as you wish, as he did in the old days;
he doesn't like drinking with anybody when he isn't "fixed", as he calls it --
when he can't shout.
It didn't matter in the old days who held the money so long as there was
plenty of "stuff" in the camp. You think of the days when Jack stuck to you
through thick and thin. You would like to give him money now,
but he is so proud; he always was; he makes you mad with his beastly pride.
There wasn't any pride of that sort on the track or in the camp in those days;
but times have changed -- your lives have drifted too widely apart --
you have taken different tracks since then; and Jack, without intending to,
makes you feel that it is so.
You have a drink, but it isn't a success; it falls flat,
as far as Jack is concerned; he won't have another; he doesn't "feel on",
and presently he escapes under plea of an engagement,
and promises to see you again.
And you wish that the time was come when no one could have
more or less to spend than another.
. . . . .
P.S. -- I met an old mate of that description once,
and so successfully persuaded him out of his beastly pride
that he borrowed two pounds off me till Monday. I never got it back since,
and I want it badly at the present time. In future I'll leave old mates
with their pride unimpaired.
Two Larrikins
"Y'orter do something, Ernie. Yer know how I am. YOU don't seem to care.
Y'orter to do something."
Stowsher slouched at a greater angle to the greasy door-post,
and scowled under his hat-brim. It was a little, low, frowsy room
opening into Jones' Alley. She sat at the table, sewing --
a thin, sallow girl with weak, colourless eyes. She looked as frowsy
as her surroundings.
"Well, why don't you go to some of them women, and get fixed up?"
She flicked the end of the table-cloth over some tiny,
unfinished articles of clothing, and bent to her work.
"But you know very well I haven't got a shilling, Ernie," she said, quietly.
"Where am I to get the money from?"
"Who asked yer to get it?"
She was silent, with the exasperating silence of a woman
who has determined to do a thing in spite of all reasons and arguments
that may be brought against it.
"Well, wot more do yer want?" demanded Stowsher, impatiently.
She bent lower. "Couldn't we keep it, Ernie?"
"Wot next?" asked Stowsher, sulkily -- he had half suspected what was coming.
Then, with an impatient oath, "You must be gettin' ratty."
She brushed the corner of the cloth further over the little clothes.
"It wouldn't cost anything, Ernie. I'd take a pride in him,
and keep him clean, and dress him like a little lord. He'll be different
from all the other youngsters. He wouldn't be like those dirty,
sickly little brats out there. He'd be just like you, Ernie; I know he would.
I'll look after him night and day, and bring him up well and strong.
We'd train his little muscles from the first, Ernie, and he'd be able
to knock 'em all out when he grew up. It wouldn't cost much,
and I'd work hard and be careful if you'd help me. And you'd be proud of him,
too, Ernie -- I know you would."
Stowsher scraped the doorstep with his foot; but whether he was "touched",
or feared hysterics and was wisely silent, was not apparent.
"Do you remember the first day I met you, Ernie?" she asked, presently.
Stowsher regarded her with an uneasy scowl: "Well -- wot o' that?"
"You came into the bar-parlour at the `Cricketers' Arms'
and caught a push of 'em chyacking your old man."
"Well, I altered that."
"I know you did. You done for three of them, one after another,
and two was bigger than you."
"Yes! and when the push come up we done for the rest," said Stowsher,
softening at the recollection.
"And the day you come home and caught the landlord bullying your old mother
like a dog ----"
"Yes; I got three months for that job. But it was worth it!" he reflected.
"Only," he added, "the old woman might have had the knocker
to keep away from the lush while I was in quod. . . . But wot's all this
got to do with it?"
"HE might barrack and fight for you, some day, Ernie," she said softly,
"when you're old and out of form and ain't got no push to back you."
The thing was becoming decidedly embarrassing to Stowsher;
not that he felt any delicacy on the subject, but because he hated
to be drawn into a conversation that might be considered "soft".
"Oh, stow that!" he said, comfortingly. "Git on yer hat,
and I'll take yer for a trot."
She rose quickly, but restrained herself, recollecting that
it was not good policy to betrayeagerness in response
to an invitation from Ernie.
"But -- you know -- I don't like to go out like this. You can't --
you wouldn't like to take me out the way I am, Ernie!"
"Why not? Wot rot!"
"The fellows would see me, and -- and ----"
"And . . . wot?"
"They might notice ----"
"Well, wot o' that? I want 'em to. Are yer comin' or are yer ain't?
Fling round now. I can't hang on here all day."
They walked towards Flagstaff Hill.
One or two, slouching round a pub. corner, saluted with "Wotcher, Stowsher!"
"Not too stinkin'," replied Stowsher. "Soak yer heads."
"Stowsher's goin' to stick," said one privately.
"An' so he orter," said another. "Wish I had the chanst."
The two turned up a steep lane.
"Don't walk so fast up hill, Ernie; I can't, you know."
"All right, Liz. I forgot that. Why didn't yer say so before?"
She was contentedly silent most of the way, warned by instinct,
after the manner of women when they have gained their point by words.
Once he glanced over his shoulder with a short laugh. "Gorblime!" he said,
"I nearly thought the little beggar was a-follerin' along behind!"
When he left her at the door he said: "Look here, Liz. 'Ere's half a quid.
Git what yer want. Let her go. I'm goin' to graft again in the mornin',
and I'll come round and see yer to-morrer night."
Still she seemed troubled and uneasy.
"Ernie."
"Well. Wot now?"
- glimpse [glimps]
n.&v.瞥见 (初中英语单词) - collar [´kɔlə] n.衣领；(狗等的)项圈 (初中英语单词)
- promising [´prɔmisiŋ] a.有希望的；有为的 (初中英语单词)
- mostly [´məustli] ad.主要地；多半；通常 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- intention [in´tenʃən] n.意图；打算；意义 (初中英语单词)
- trousers [´trauzəz] n.裤子，长裤 (初中英语单词)
- innocent [´inəsənt] a.无罪的；单纯的 (初中英语单词)
- construction [kən´strʌkʃən] n.建设；修建；结构 (初中英语单词)
- enthusiasm [in´θju:ziæzəm] n.热心；狂热；爱好 (初中英语单词)
- ashamed [ə´ʃeimd] a.惭愧；不好意思 (初中英语单词)
- respond [ri´spɔnd] v.回答；响应；有反应 (初中英语单词)
- description [di´skripʃən] n.描写 (初中英语单词)
- landlord [´lændlɔ:d] n.地主；房东；店主 (初中英语单词)
- betray [bi´trei] vt.背叛；辜负；暴露 (初中英语单词)
- invitation [,invi´teiʃən] n.邀请；请帖；吸引 (初中英语单词)
- beggar [´begə] n.乞丐 (初中英语单词)
- assurance [ə´ʃuərəns] n.保证；自信；信任 (高中英语单词)
- awfully [´ɔ:fuli] ad.令人畏惧地 (高中英语单词)
- recollection [,rekə´lekʃən] n.回忆；追想；记忆力 (高中英语单词)
- concerned [kən´sə:nd] a.有关的；担心的 (高中英语单词)
- heartily [´hɑ:tili] ad.衷心地；亲切地 (高中英语单词)
- successfully [sək´sesfəli] ad.成功地 (高中英语单词)
- sewing [´səuiŋ] n.缝纫；(书的)装订 (高中英语单词)
- shilling [´ʃiliŋ] n.先令 (高中英语单词)
- impatient [im´peiʃənt] a.不耐烦的，急躁的 (高中英语单词)
- wisely [´waizli] ad.明智地，聪明地 (高中英语单词)
- uneasy [ʌn´i:zi] a.不安的；不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- decidedly [di´saididli] ad.坚决地，果断地 (高中英语单词)
- delicacy [´delikəsi] n.精美；娇弱，微妙 (高中英语单词)
- eagerness [´i:gənis] n.渴望；热忱 (高中英语单词)
- temperance [´tempərəns] n.节制；节欲；戒酒 (英语四级单词)
- eloquent [´eləkwənt] a.流利的；雄辩的 (英语四级单词)
- totally [´təutəli] ad.统统，完全 (英语四级单词)
- polish [´pəuliʃ] a.波兰(人)的 n.波兰语 (英语四级单词)
- policy [´pɔlisi] n.政策；权谋；保险单 (英语四级单词)
- misunderstand [,misʌndə´stænd] vt.误会 (英语六级单词)
- beastly [´bi:stli] a.残忍的；卑鄙的 (英语六级单词)
- greasy [´gri:si] a.油腻的；润滑的 (英语六级单词)
- colourless [´kʌləlis] a.无色的；不生动的 (英语六级单词)
- doorstep [´dɔ:step] n.门阶 (英语六级单词)
- barrack [´bærək] n.兵营 vt.使驻兵营内 (英语六级单词)
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