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Moon-Face and Other Stories-Part1_JACK LONDON(1876-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"I--I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me," he explained. "Wasn't it

funny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought he held his sides



with laughter.

"What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms.



"Bellona," I said.

"He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name."



I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out between

them, "She was the wife of Mars, you know."



Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he exploded

with: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now. Oh! Ho! ho! E!



he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fled swiftly over the hill.

The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go away



Monday, don't you?"

He nodded his head and grinned.



"Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout you just

'dote' on."



But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know," he chuckled. "I'm going

up to-morrow to try pretty hard."



Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house hugging

myself with rapture.



Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and Bellona

trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out by the back



pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the mountain. Keeping

carefully out of sight, I followed the crest along for a couple of miles to a



natural amphitheatre in the hills, where the little river raced down out of a

gorge and stopped for breath in a large and placid rock-bound pool. That was



the spot! I sat down on the croup of the mountain, where I could see all that

occurred, and lighted my pipe.



Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed of the

stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high feather, her



short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at the pool,

he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from his hip-pocket what looked



like a large, fat candle. But I knew it to be a stick of "giant"; for such was

his method of catching trout. He dynamited them. He attached the fuse by



wrapping the "giant" tightly in a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuse

and tossed the explosive into the pool.



Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked aloud

for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted her with



clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the stick of "giant" in

her mouth, when she whirled about and headed for shore. Then, for the first



time, he realized his danger, and started to run. As foreseen and planned by

me, she made the bank and took out after him. Oh, I tell you, it was great! As



I have said, the pool lay in a sort of amphitheatre. Above and below, the

stream could be crossed on stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down



and across the stones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have

believed that such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellona



hot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in full

stride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a sudden flash, a



burst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and dog had been the

instant before there was naught to be seen but a big hole in the ground.



"Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing." That was the verdict

of the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on the neat and artistic



way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There was no bungling, no

brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in the whole transaction, as I am



sure you will agree. No more does his infernal laugh go echoing among the

hills, and no more does his fat moon-face rise up to vex me. My days are



peaceful now, and my night's sleep deep.

THE LEOPARD MAN'S STORY



HE had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistent voice,

gentle-spoken as a maid's, seemed the placid embodiment of some deep-seated



melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not look it. His business in

life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage of performing leopards before



vast audiences, and to thrill those audiences by certain exhibitions of nerve

for which his employers rewarded him on a scale commensurate with the thrills



he produced.

As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered, and



anaemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by a sweet and

gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gently borne. For an



hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, but he appeared to lack

imagination. To him there was no romance in his gorgeouscareer, no deeds of



daring, no thrills--nothing but a gray sameness and infinite boredom.

Lions? Oh, yes! he had fought with them. It was nothing. All you had to do was



to stay sober. Anybody could whip a lion to a standstill with an ordinary

stick. He had fought one for half an hour once. Just hit him on the nose every






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