Lost on Dress Parade华而不实 Mr. Towers Chandler was pressing his evening suit in his hall bedroom. One iron was heating on a small gas stove; the other was being pushed vigorously back and forth to make the desirable crease that would be seen later on extending in straight lines from Mr. Chandler's patent leather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. So much of the hero's toilet may be intrusted to our confidence. The remainder may be guessed by those whom genteel poverty has driven to ignoble expedient. Our next view of him shall be as he descends the steps of his lodging-house immaculately and correctly clothed; calm, assured, handsome--in appearance the typical New York young clubman setting out, slightly bored, to inaugurate the pleasures of the evening. 　　Chandler's honorarium was $18 per week. He was employed in the office of an architect. He was twenty-two years old; he considered architecture to be truly an art; and he honestly believed--though he would not have dared to admit it in New York--that the Flatiron Building was inferior to design to the great cathedral in Milan. 　　Out of each week's earnings Chandler set aside $1. At the end of each ten weeks with the extra capital thus accumulated, he purchased one gentleman's evening from the bargain counter of stingy old Father Time. He arrayed himself in the regalia of millionaires and presidents; he took himself to the quarter where life is brightest and showiest, and there dined with taste and luxury. With ten dollars a man may, for a few hours, play the wealthy idler to perfection. The sum is ample for a well-considered meal, a bottle bearing a respectable label, commensurate tips, a smoke, cab fare and the ordinary etceteras. 　　This one delectable evening culled from each dull seventy was to Chandler a source of renascent bliss. To the society bud comes but one debut; it stands alone sweet in her memory when her hair has whitened; but to Chandler each ten weeks brought a joy as keen, as thrilling, as new as the first had been. To sit among bon vivants under palms in the swirl of concealed music, to look upon the habitues of such a paradise and to be looked upon by them--what is a girl's first dance and short-sleeved tulle compared with this? 　　Up Broadway Chandler moved with the vespertine dress parade. For this evening he was an exhibit as well as a gazer. For the next sixty-nine evenings he would be dining in cheviot and worsted at dubious table d'hotes, at whirlwind lunch counters, on sandwiches and beer in his hall-bedroom. He was willing to do that, for he was a true son of the great city of razzle-dazzle, and to him one evening in the limelight made up for many dark ones. 　　Chandler protracted his walk until the Forties began to intersect the great and glittering primrose way, for the evening was yet young, and when one is of the beau monde only one day in seventy, one loves to protract the pleasure. Eyes bright, sinister, curious, admiring, provocative, alluring were bent upon him, for his garb and air proclaimed him a devotee to the hour of solace and pleasure. 　　At a certain corner he came to a standstill, proposing to himself the question of turning back toward the showy and fashionable restaurant in which he usually dined on the evenings of his especial luxury. Just then a girl scuddled lightly around the corner, slipped on a patch of icy snow and fell plump upon the sidewalk. 　　Chandler assisted her to her feet with instant and solicitous courtesy. The girl hobbled to the wall of the building, leaned against it, and thanked him demurely. 　　"I think my ankle is strained," she said. "It twisted when I fell." 　　"Does it pain you much?" inquired Chandler. 　　"Only when I rest my weight upon it. I think I will be able to walk in a minute or two." 　　"If I can be of any further service," suggested the young man, "I will call a cab, or--" 　　"Thank you," said the girl, softly but heartily. "I am sure you need not trouble yourself any further. It was so awkward of me. And my shoe heels are horridly common-sense; I can't blame them at all." 　　Chandler looked at the girl and found her swiftly drawing his interest. She was pretty in a refined way; and her eye was both merry and kind. She was inexpensively clothed in a plain black dress that suggested a sort of uniform such as shop girls wear. Her glossy dark-brown hair showed its coils beneath a cheap hat of black straw whose only ornament was a velvet ribbon and bow. She could have posed as a model for the self-respecting working girl of the best type. 　　A sudden idea came into the head of the young architect. He would ask this girl to dine with him. Here was the element that his splendid but solitary periodic feasts had lacked. His brief season of elegant luxury would be doubly enjoyable if he could add to it a lady's society. This girl was a lady, he was sure--her manner and speech settled that. And in spite of her extremely plain attire he felt that he would be pleased to sit at table with her. 　　These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind, and he decided to ask her. It was a breach of etiquette, of course, but oftentimes wage- earning girls waived formalities in matters of this kind. They were generally shrewd judges of men; and thought better of their own judgment than they did of useless conventions. His ten dollars, discreetly expended, would enable the two to dine very well indeed. The dinner would no doubt be a wonderful experience thrown into the dull routine of the girl's life; and her lively appreciation of it would add to his own triumph and pleasure. 　　"I think," he said to her, with frank gravity, "that your foot needs a longer rest than you suppose. Now, I am going to suggest a way in which you can give it that and at the same time do me a favour. I was on my way to dine all by my lonely self when you came tumbling around the corner. You come with me and we'll have a cozy dinner and a pleasant talk together, and by that time your game ankle will carry you home very nicely, I am sure." 　　The girl looked quickly up into Chandler's clear, pleasant countenance. Her eyes twinkled once very brightly, and then she smiled ingenuously. 　　"But we don't know each other--it wouldn't be right, would it?" she said, doubtfully. 　　"There is nothing wrong about it," said the young man, candidly. "I'll introduce myself--permit me--Mr. Towers Chandler. After our dinner, which I will try to make as pleasant as possible, I will bid you good-evening, or attend you safely to your door, whichever you prefer." 　　"But, dear me!" said the girl, with a glance at Chandler's faultless attire. "In this old dress and hat!" 　　"Never mind that," said Chandler, cheerfully. "I'm sure you look more charming in them than any one we shall see in the most elaborate dinner toilette." 　　"My ankle does hurt yet," admitted the girl, attempting a limping step. "I think I will accept your invitation, Mr. Chandler. You may call me--Miss Marian." 　　"Come then, Miss Marian," said the young architect, gaily, but with perfect courtesy; "you will not have far to walk. There is a very respectable and good restaurant in the next block. You will have to lean on my arm--so--and walk slowly. It is lonely dining all by one's self. I'm just a little bit glad that you slipped on the ice." 　　When the two were established at a well-appointed table, with a promising waiter hovering in attendance, Chandler began to experience the real joy that his regular outing always brought to him. 　　The restaurant was not so showy or pretentious as the one further down Broadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so. The tables were well filled with Prosperous-looking diners, there was a good orchestra, playing softly enough to make conversation a possible pleasure, and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism. His companion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with an air that added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure. And it is certain that she looked at Chandler, with his animated but self-possessed manner and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with something not far from admiration in her own charming face. 　　Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan, the frenzy of Fuss and Feathers, the Bacillus of Brag, the Provincial Plague of Pose seized upon Towers Chandler. He was on Broadway, surrounded by pomp and style, and there were eyes to look at him. On the stage of that comedy he had assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly of fashion and an idler of means and taste. He was dressed for the part, and all his good angels had not the power to prevent him from acting it. 　　So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and riding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad and threw out hints of a yacht lying at Larchmont. He could see that she was vastly impressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random insinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few names that are handled reverently by the proletariat. It was Chandler's short little day, and he was wringing from it the best that could be had, as he saw it. And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of this girl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised between him and all objects. 　　"This way of living that you speak of," she said, "sounds so futile and purposeless. Haven't you any work to do in the world that might interest you more?" 　　"My dear Miss Marian," he exclaimed--"work! Think of dressing every day for dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon--with a policeman at every corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to the station, if you get up any greater speed than a donkey cart's gait. We do-nothings are the hardest workers in the land." 　　The dinner was concluded, the waiter generously fed, and the two walked out to the corner where they had met. Miss Marian walked very well now; her limp was scarcely noticeable. 　　"Thank you for a nice time," she said, frankly. "I must run home now. I liked the dinner very much, Mr. Chandler." 　　He shook hands with her, smiling cordially, and said something about a game of bridge at his club. He watched her for a moment, walking rather rapidly eastward, and then he found a cab to drive him slowly homeward. 　　In his chilly bedroom Chandler laid away his evening clothes for a sixty-nine days' rest. He went about it thoughtfully. 　　"That was a stunning girl," he said to himself. "She's all right, too, I'd be sworn, even if she does have to work. Perhaps if I'd told her the truth instead of all that razzle-dazzle we might--but, confound it! I had to play up to my clothes." 　　Thus spoke the brave who was born and reared in the wigwams of the tribe of the Manhattans. 　　The girl, after leaving her entertainer, sped swiftly cross-town until she arrived at a handsome and sedate mansion two squares to the east, facing on that avenue which is the highway of Mammon and the auxiliary gods. Here she entered hurriedly and ascended to a room where a handsome young lady in an elaborate house dress was looking anxiously out the window. 　　"Oh, you madcap!" exclaimed the elder girl, when the other entered. "When will you quit frightening us this way? It is two hours since you ran out in that rag of an old dress and Marie's hat. Mamma has been so alarmed. She sent Louis in the auto to try to find you. You are a bad, thoughtless Puss." 　　The elder girl touched a button, and a maid came in a moment. 　　"Marie, tell mamma that Miss Marian has returned." 　　"Don't scold, sister. I only ran down to Mme. Theo's to tell her to use mauve insertion instead of pink. My costume and Marie's hat were just what I needed. Every one thought I was a shopgirl, I am sure." 　　"Dinner is over, dear; you stayed so late." 　　"I know. I slipped on the sidewalk and turned my ankle. I could not walk, so I hobbled into a restaurant and sat there until I was better. That is why I was so long." 　　The two girls sat in the window seat, looking out at the lights and the stream of hurrying vehicles in the avenue. The younger one cuddled down with her head in her sister's lap. 　　"We will have to marry some day," she said dreamily--" both of us. We have so much money that we will not be allowed to disappoint the public. Do you want me to tell you the kind of a man I could love, Sis?" 　　"Go on, you scatterbrain," smiled the other. 　　"I could love a man with dark and kind blue eyes, who is gentle and respectful to poor girls, who is handsome and good and does not try to flirt. But I could love him only if he had an ambition, an object, some work to do in the world. I would not care how poor he was if I could help him build his way up. But, sister dear, the kind of man we always meet--the man who lives an idle life between society and his clubs--I could not love a man like that, even if his eyes were blue and he were ever so kind to poor girls whom he met in the street." 托尔斯·钱德勒先生在他那间在过道上隔成的卧室里熨晚礼服。一只熨斗烧在小煤气炉上，另一只熨斗拿在手里，使劲地来回推动，以便压出一道合意的褶子，待会儿从钱德勒先生的漆皮革到低领坎肩的下摆就可以看到两条笔挺的裤线了。关于这位主角的修饰，我们所能了解的只以此为限。其余的事情让那些既落魄又讲究气派，不得不想些寒酸的变通办法的人去猜测吧。我们再看到他的时候，他已经打扮得整整齐齐，一丝不苟，安详，大方，潇洒地走下寄宿舍的台阶——正如典型的纽约公子哥儿那样，略带厌烦的神情，出去寻求晚间的消遣。     钱德勒的酬劳是每周十八块钱。他在一位建筑师的事务所里工作。他只有二十二岁；他认为建筑是一门真正的艺术；并且确实相信——虽然不敢在纽约说这句话——钢筋水泥的弗拉特艾荣大厦的设计要比米兰大教堂的差劲。     [米兰大教堂：米兰是意大利北部伦巴第区的首府，十四世纪时建立的哥特式大教堂闻名于世。]     钱德勒从每星期的收入中留出一块钱。凑满十星期以后，他用这笔累积起来的额外资金在吝啬的时间老人的廉价物品部购买一个绅士排场的夜晚。他把自己打扮成百万富翁或总经理的样子，到生活十分绚丽辉煌的场所去一次，在那儿吃一顿精致豪华的晚饭。一个人有了十块钱，就可以周周全全地充当几小时富裕的胡闲阶级。这笔钱足够应付一顿经过仔细斟酌的饭菜，一瓶像样的酒，适当的小帐，一支雪茄，车费，以及一般杂费。     从每七十个沉闷的夜晚撷取一个愉快的晚上，对钱德勒来说，是终古常新的幸福的源泉。名门闺秀首次进入社交界，一辈子中只有刚成年时的那一次；即使到了白发苍苍的年岁，她们仍旧把第一次的旖旎风光当作唯一值得回忆的往事。可是对于钱德勒来说，每十星期带来的欢乐仍旧同第一次那样强烈、激动和新鲜。同讲究饮食的人一起，坐在棕榈掩映、乐声悠扬的环境里，望着这样一个人间天堂的老主顾们，同时让自己成为他们观看的对象，相比之下，一个少女的初次跳舞和短袖的薄纱衣服又算得上什么呢？     钱德勒走在百老汇路上，仿佛加入了晚间穿正式礼服的阅兵式。今晚，他不仅是旁观者，还是供人观看的人物。在以后的六十九个晚上，他将穿着粗呢裤和毛线衫，在蹩脚饭馆里吃吃客饭，或是在小饭摊上来一客快餐，或是在自己的卧室里啃三明治，喝啤酒。他愿意这样做，因为他是这个夜夜元宵的大城市的真正的儿子。对于他，出一夜风头就足以弥补许多黯淡的日子。     钱德勒放慢了脚步，一直走到第四十几号街开始同那条灯光辉耀的欢乐大街相衔接的地方。时间还早呢，每七十天只在时髦社会里待上一天的人，总爱延长他的欢乐。各种眼光，明亮的，阴险的，好奇的，欣羡的，挑逗的和迷人的，纷纷向他投来，因为他的衣着和气派说明他是拥护及时行乐的信徒。     [欢乐大街：指百老汇路。]     他在一个拐角上站住，心里盘算着，是不是要折回到他在特别挥霍的夜晚往往要照顾的豪华的时髦的饭馆去。那当儿，一个姑娘轻快地跑过拐角，在一块冻硬的雪上滑了一下，咕咚一声摔倒在人行道上。     钱德勒连忙关切而彬彬有礼地扶她起来。姑娘一瘸一拐地向一幢房屋走去，靠在墙上，端庄地向他道了谢。     “我的脚踝大概扭伤了。”她说。“摔倒是蹩了一下。”     “疼得厉害吗？”钱德勒问道。     “只在着力的时候才疼。我想过一小会儿就能走路的。”     “假如还有什么地方要我帮忙，”年轻人建议道，“比如说，雇一辆车子，或者——”     “谢谢你。”姑娘恳切地轻声说。“你千万别再费心啦。只怪我自己不小心。我的鞋子再实用也没有了，不能怪我的鞋跟。”     钱德勒打量了那姑娘一下，发觉自己很快就对她有了好感。她有一种娴雅的美；她的眼光又愉快又和善。她穿一身朴素的黑衣服，像是一般女店员的打扮。她那顶便宜的黑草帽底下露出了光泽的深褐色发鬈，草帽上没有别的装饰，只有一条丝绒带打成的蝴蝶结。她很可以成为自食其力的职业妇女中最优秀的典型。     年轻的建筑师突然起了一个念头。他要请这个姑娘同他一起去吃饭。他的周期性的壮举固然痛快，但缺少一个因素，总令人感到枯寂；如今这个因素就在眼前。倘若能有一位有教养的小姐做伴，他那短暂的豪兴就加倍有劲了。他敢肯定这个姑娘是有教养的——她的态度和谈吐已经说明了这一点。尽管她打扮得十分朴素，钱德勒觉得能跟她一起吃饭还是愉快的。     这些想法飞快地掠过脑际，他决定邀请她。不错，这种做法不很礼貌，但是职业妇女在这类事情上往往不拘泥于形式。在判断男人方面，她们一般都很精明；并且把自己的判断能力看得比那些无聊的习俗更重。他的十块钱，如果用得恰当，也够他们两人美美地吃一顿。毫无疑问，在这个姑娘沉闷刻板的生活中，这顿饭准能成为一个意想不到的经历；她因这顿饭而产生的深切感激也准能增加他的得意和快乐。     “我认为，”他坦率而庄重地对她说，“你的脚需要休息的时间，比你想象的要长些。现在我提出一个两全其美的办法，你既可以让它休息一下，又可以赏我一个脸。你刚才跑过拐角摔跤的时候，我独自一个人正要去吃饭。你同我一起去吧，让我们舒舒服服地吃顿饭，愉快地聊聊。吃完饭后，我想你那扭伤的脚踝就能胜任愉快地带你回家了。”     姑娘飞快地抬起头，对钱德勒清秀和蔼的面孔瞅了一眼。她的眼睛非常明亮地闪了一下，天真地笑了起来。     “可是我们互相并不认识呀——这样不太好吧，是吗？”她迟疑地说。     “没有什么不好。”年轻人直率地说，“请允许我介绍一下自己——托尔斯·钱德勒。我一定尽可能使我们这顿饭吃昨满意，之后我就跟你分手告别，或者伴送你回家，你爱怎么办就怎么办。”     “哎呀！”姑娘朝钱德勒那一丝不苟的衣服瞟了一眼，说道，“我穿着这套旧衣服，戴着这顶旧帽子去吃饭吗！”     “那有什么关系。”钱德勒爽快地说，“我敢说，你就这样打扮，要比我们将看到的任何一个穿最讲究的宴会服的人更有风度。”     “我的脚踝确实还疼。”姑娘试了一步，承认说，“我想我愿意接受你的邀请，钱德勒先生。你不妨称呼我——玛丽安小姐。”     “那么来吧，玛丽安小姐，”年轻的建筑师兴致勃勃然而非常有礼貌地说，“你不用走很多路。再过一个街口就有一家很不错的饭馆。你恐怕要扶着我的胳臂——对啦——慢慢地走。独自一个人吃饭实在太无聊了。你在冰上滑了一跤，倒有点成全我呢。”     他们两人在一张摆设齐全的桌子旁就座，一个能干的侍者在附近殷勤伺侯。这时，钱德勒开始感到了他的定期外出一向会带给他的真正的快乐。     这家饭馆的华丽阔气不及他一向喜欢的，在百老汇路上再过去一点的那一家，但是也相差无几。饭馆里满是衣冠楚楚的顾客，还有一个很好的乐队，演奏着轻柔的音乐，足以使谈话成为乐事；此外，烹调和招待也都是无可指摘的。他的同伴，尽管穿戴得并不讲究，但自有一种风韵，把她容貌和身段的天然妩媚衬托得格外出色。可以肯定地说，在她望着钱德勒那生气勃勃而又沉着的态度，灼热而又坦率的蓝眼睛时，她自己秀丽的脸上也流露出一种近似爱慕的神情。     接着，曼哈顿的疯狂，庸人自扰和沾沾自喜的骚乱，吹牛夸口的杆菌，装模作样的疫病感染了托尔斯·钱德勒。此时此刻，他在百老汇路上，周围一派繁华，何况还有许多眼睛在注视着他。在那个喜剧舞台上，他假想自己当晚的角色是一个时髦的纨绔子弟和家拥巨资，趣味高雅的有闲阶级。他已经穿上这个角色的服装，非演出不可了；所有守护天使都拦不住他了。     于是，他开始向玛丽安小姐夸说俱乐部，茶会，高尔夫球，骑马，狩猎，交谊舞，国外旅游等等，同时还隐隐约约地提起停泊在拉奇蒙特港口的私人游艇。他发现这种没边没际的谈话深深地打动了她，所以又信口诌了一些暗示巨富的话，亲昵地提出几个无产阶级听了就头痛的姓名，来加强演出效果。这是钱德勒的短暂而难得的机会，他抓紧时机，尽量榨取最大限度的乐趣。他的自我陶醉在他与一切事物之间撒下了一张雾网，然而有一两次，他还是看到了这位姑娘的纯真从雾网中透射出来。     “你讲的这种生活方式，”她说，“听来是多么空虚，多么没有意义啊。难道你在世上就没有别的工作可做，使你更感到兴趣吗？”     “我亲爱的玛丽安小姐，”他嚷了起来，“工作！你想想看，每天吃饭都要换礼服，一个下午走五、六家串门——每个街角上都有警察注意着你，只要你的汽车开得比驴车快一点儿，他就跳上车业，把你带到警察局去。我们这种闲人是世界上工作得最辛苦的人了。”     晚饭结束，慷慨地打发了侍者，他们两人来到刚才见面的拐角上。这会儿，玛丽安小姐已经走得很好了，简直看不出步履有什么不便。     “谢谢你的款待，”她真诚地说，“现在我得赶快回家了。我非常欣赏这顿饭，钱德勒先生。”     他亲切地微笑着，跟她握手道别，提到他在俱乐部里还有一场桥牌戏。他朝她背影望了一会儿，飞快地向东走去，然后雇了一辆马车，慢慢回家。     在他那寒冷的卧室里，钱德勒收藏好晚礼服，让它休息六十九天。他沉思地做着这件事。     “一位了不起的姑娘。”他自言自语地说。“即使也为了生活非干活不可，我敢赌咒说，她远是够格的。假如我不那样胡吹乱扯，把真话告诉她，我们也许——可是，去它的！我讲的话总得跟我的衣服相称呀。”     这是在曼哈顿部落的小屋里成长起来的勇士所说的一番话。     那位姑娘同请她吃饭的人分手后，迅疾地穿过市区，来到一座漂亮而宁静的邸宅前面。那座邸宅离东区有两个广场，面临那条财神和其余副神时常出没的马路。她急急忙忙地进去，跑到楼上的一间屋子里，有一    个穿着雅致的便服的年轻妍丽的女人正焦急地望着窗外。     [“那条财神……出没的马路”：指五马路。]     “唷，你这个疯丫头！”她进去时，那个年纪比她稍大的女人嚷道，“你老是这样叫我们担惊受吓，什么时候才能改呀？你穿了那身又破又旧的衣服，戴了玛丽的帽子，到处乱跑，已经有两个小时啦。妈妈吓坏了。她吩咐路易斯坐了汽车去找你。你真是个没有头脑的坏姑娘。”     那个年纪比较大的姑娘按按电钮，立刻来了一个使女。     “玛丽，告诉太太，玛丽安小姐已经回来了。”     “别派我的不是了，姐姐。我只不过到西奥夫人的店里去了一次，通知她不要粉红色的嵌饰，要用紫红色的。我那套旧衣服和玛丽的帽子很合式。我相信谁都以为我是女店员呢。”     “亲爱的，晚饭已经开过了；你在外面待得太久啦。”     “我知道，我在人行道上滑了一下，扭伤了脚踝。我不能走了，便到一家饭馆坐坐，等到好一些才回来，所以耽搁了那么久。”     两个姑娘坐在窗口前，望着外面灯火辉煌和车水马龙的大街。年轻的那个把头偎在她姐姐的膝上。     “我们两人总有一天都得结婚，”她浮想联翩地说，“我们这样有钱，社会上的人都在看着我们，我们可不能让大家失望。要我告诉你，我会爱上哪一种人吗，姐姐？”     “说吧，你这傻丫头，”另一个微笑着说。     “我会爱上一个有着和善的深蓝色眼睛的人，他体贴和尊重穷苦的姑娘，人又漂亮，又和气，又不卖弄风情。但他活在世上总得有志向，有目标，有工作可做，我才能爱他。只要我能帮助他建立一个事业，我不在乎他多么穷。可是，亲爱的姐姐，我们老是碰到那种人——那种在交际界和俱乐部里庸庸碌碌地混日子的人——我可不能爱上那种人，即使他的眼睛是蓝的，即使他对在街上碰到的穷姑娘是那么和气。”

The Handbook of Hymen婚姻手册 Tis the opinion of myself, Sanderson Pratt, who sets this down, that the educational system of the United States should be in the hands of the weather bureau. I can give you good reasons for it; and you can't tell me why our college professors shouldn't be transferred to the meteorological department. They have been learned to read; and they could very easily glance at the morning papers and then wire in to the main office what kind of weather to expect. But there's the other side of the proposition. I am going on to tell you how the weather furnished me and Idaho Green with an elegant education. We was up in the Bitter Root Mountains over the Montana line prospecting for gold. A chin-whiskered man in Walla-Walla, carrying a line of hope as excess baggage, had grubstaked us; and there we was in the foothills pecking away, with enough grub on hand to last an army through a peace conference. Along one day comes a mail-rider over the mountains from Carlos, and stops to eat three cans of greengages, and leave us a newspaper of modern date. This paper prints a system of premonitions of the weather, and the card it dealt Bitter Root Mountains from the bottom of the deck was "warmer and fair, with light westerly breezes." That evening it began to snow, with the wind strong in the east. Me and Idaho moved camp into an old empty cabin higher up the mountain, thinking it was only a November flurry. But after falling three foot on a level it went to work in earnest; and we knew we was snowed in. We got in plenty of firewood before it got deep, and we had grub enough for two months, so we let the elements rage and cut up all they thought proper. If you want to instigate the art of manslaughter just shut two men up in a eighteen by twenty-foot cabin for a month. Human nature won't stand it. When the first snowflakes fell me and Idaho Green laughed at each other's jokes and praised the stuff we turned out of a skillet and called bread. At the end of three weeks Idaho makes this kind of a edict to me. Says he: "I never exactly heard sour milk dropping out of a balloon on the bottom of a tin pan, but I have an idea it would be music of the spears compared to this attenuated stream of asphyxiated thought that emanates out of your organs of conversation. The kind of half- masticated noises that you emit every day puts me in mind of a cow's cud, only she's lady enough to keep hers to herself, and you ain't." "Mr. Green," says I, "you having been a friend of mine once, I have some hesitations in confessing to you that if I had my choice for society between you and a common yellow, three-legged cur pup, one of the inmates of this here cabin would be wagging a tail just at present." This way we goes on for two or three days, and then we quits speaking to one another. We divides up the cooking implements, and Idaho cooks his grub on one side of the fireplace, and me on the other. The snow is up to the windows, and we have to keep a fire all day. You see me and Idaho never had any education beyond reading and doing "if John had three apples and James five" on a slate. We never felt any special need for a university degree, though we had acquired a species of intrinsic intelligence in knocking around the world that we could use in emergencies. But, snowbound in that cabin in the Bitter Roots, we felt for the first time that if we had studied Homer or Greek and fractions and the higher branches of information, we'd have had some resources in the line of meditation and private thought. I've seen them Eastern college fellows working in camps all through the West, and I never noticed but what education was less of a drawback to 'em than you would think. Why, once over on Snake River, when Andrew McWilliams' saddle horse got the botts, he sent a buckboard ten miles for one of these strangers that claimed to be a botanist. But that horse died. One morning Idaho was poking around with a stick on top of a little shelf that was too high to reach. Two books fell down to the floor. I started toward 'em, but caught Idaho's eye. He speaks for the first time in a week. "Don't burn your fingers," says he. "In spite of the fact that you're only fit to be the companion of a sleeping mud-turtle, I'll give you a square deal. And that's more than your parents did when they turned you loose in the world with the sociability of a rattle-snake and the bedside manner of a frozen turnip. I'll play you a game of seven-up, the winner to pick up his choice of the book, the loser to take the other." We played; and Idaho won. He picked up his book; and I took mine. Then each of us got on his side of the house and went to reading. I never was as glad to see a ten-ounce nugget as I was that book. And Idaho took at his like a kid looks at a stick of candy. Mine was a little book about five by six inches called "Herkimer's Handbook of Indispensable Information." I may be wrong, but I think that was the greatest book that ever was written. I've got it to-day; and I can stump you or any man fifty times in five minutes with the information in it. Talk about Solomon or the New York Tribune! Herkimer had cases on both of 'em. That man must have put in fifty years and travelled a million miles to find out all that stuff. There was the population of all cities in it, and the way to tell a girl's age, and the number of teeth a camel has. It told you the longest tunnel in the world, the number of the stars, how long it takes for chicken pox to break out, what a lady's neck ought to measure, the veto powers of Governors, the dates of the Roman aqueducts, how many pounds of rice going without three beers a day would buy, the average annual temperature of Augusta, Maine, the quantity of seed required to plant an acre of carrots in drills, antidotes for poisons, the number of hairs on a blond lady's head, how to preserve eggs, the height of all the mountains in the world, and the dates of all wars and battles, and how to restore drowned persons, and sunstroke, and the number of tacks in a pound, and how to make dynamite and flowers and beds, and what to do before the doctor comes--and a hundred times as many things besides. If there was anything Herkimer didn't know I didn't miss it out of the book. I sat and read that book for four hours. All the wonders of education was compressed in it. I forgot the snow, and I forgot that me and old Idaho was on the outs. He was sitting still on a stool reading away with a kind of partly soft and partly mysterious look shining through his tan-bark whiskers. "Idaho," says I, "what kind of a book is yours?" Idaho must have forgot, too, for he answered moderate, without any slander or malignity. "Why," says he, "this here seems to be a volume by Homer K. M." "Homer K. M. what?" I asks. "Why, just Homer K. M.," says he. "You're a liar," says I, a little riled that Idaho should try to put me up a tree. "No man is going 'round signing books with his initials. If it's Homer K. M. Spoopendyke, or Homer K. M. McSweeney, or Homer K. M. Jones, why don't you say so like a man instead of biting off the end of it like a calf chewing off the tail of a shirt on a clothes- line?" "I put it to you straight, Sandy," says Idaho, quiet. "It's a poem book," says he, "by Homer K. M. I couldn't get colour out of it at first, but there's a vein if you follow it up. I wouldn't have missed this book for a pair of red blankets." "You're welcome to it," says I. "What I want is a disinterested statement of facts for the mind to work on, and that's what I seem to find in the book I've drawn." "What you've got," says Idaho, "is statistics, the lowest grade of information that exists. They'll poison your mind. Give me old K. M.'s system of surmises. He seems to be a kind of a wine agent. His regular toast is 'nothing doing,' and he seems to have a grouch, but he keeps it so well lubricated with booze that his worst kicks sound like an invitation to split a quart. But it's poetry," says Idaho, "and I have sensations of scorn for that truck of yours that tries to convey sense in feet and inches. When it comes to explaining the instinct of philosophy through the art of nature, old K. M. has got your man beat by drills, rows, paragraphs, chest measurement, and average annual rainfall." So that's the way me and Idaho had it. Day and night all the excitement we got was studying our books. That snowstorm sure fixed us with a fine lot of attainments apiece. By the time the snow melted, if you had stepped up to me suddenly and said: "Sanderson Pratt, what would it cost per square foot to lay a roof with twenty by twenty- eight tin at nine dollars and fifty cents per box?" I'd have told you as quick as light could travel the length of a spade handle at the rate of one hundred and ninety-two thousand miles per second. How many can do it? You wake up 'most any man you know in the middle of the night, and ask him quick to tell you the number of bones in the human skeleton exclusive of the teeth, or what percentage of the vote of the Nebraska Legislature overrules a veto. Will he tell you? Try him and see. About what benefit Idaho got out of his poetry book I didn't exactly know. Idaho boosted the wine-agent every time he opened his mouth; but I wasn't so sure. This Homer K. M., from what leaked out of his libretto through Idaho, seemed to me to be a kind of a dog who looked at life like it was a tin can tied to his tail. After running himself half to death, he sits down, hangs his tongue out, and looks at the can and says: "Oh, well, since we can't shake the growler, let's get it filled at the corner, and all have a drink on me." Besides that, it seems he was a Persian; and I never hear of Persia producing anything worth mentioning unless it was Turkish rugs and Maltese cats. That spring me and Idaho struck pay ore. It was a habit of ours to sell out quick and keep moving. We unloaded our grubstaker for eight thousand dollars apiece; and then we drifted down to this little town of Rosa, on the Salmon river, to rest up, and get some human grub, and have our whiskers harvested. Rosa was no mining-camp. It laid in the valley, and was as free of uproar and pestilence as one of them rural towns in the country. There was a three-mile trolley line champing its bit in the environs; and me and Idaho spent a week riding on one of the cars, dropping off at nights at the Sunset View Hotel. Being now well read as well as travelled, we was soon pro re nata with the best society in Rosa, and was invited out to the most dressed-up and high-toned entertainments. It was at a piano recital and quail-eating contest in the city hall, for the benefit of the fire company, that me and Idaho first met Mrs. De Ormond Sampson, the queen of Rosa society. Mrs. Sampson was a widow, and owned the only two-story house in town. It was painted yellow, and whichever way you looked from you could see it as plain as egg on the chin of an O'Grady on a Friday. Twenty-two men in Rosa besides me and Idaho was trying to stake a claim on that yellow house. There was a dance after the song books and quail bones had been raked out of the Hall. Twenty-three of the bunch galloped over to Mrs. Sampson and asked for a dance. I side-stepped the two-step, and asked permission to escort her home. That's where I made a hit. On the way home says she: "Ain't the stars lovely and bright to-night, Mr. Pratt?" "For the chance they've got," says I, "they're humping themselves in a mighty creditable way. That big one you see is sixty-six million miles distant. It took thirty-six years for its light to reach us. With an eighteen-foot telescope you can see forty-three millions of 'em, including them of the thirteenth magnitude, which, if one was to go out now, you would keep on seeing it for twenty-seven hundred years." "My!" says Mrs. Sampson. "I never knew that before. How warm it is! I'm as damp as I can be from dancing so much." "That's easy to account for," says I, "when you happen to know that you've got two million sweat-glands working all at once. If every one of your perspiratory ducts, which are a quarter of an inch long, was placed end to end, they would reach a distance of seven miles." "Lawsy!" says Mrs. Sampson. "It sounds like an irrigation ditch you was describing, Mr. Pratt. How do you get all this knowledge of information?" "From observation, Mrs. Sampson," I tells her. "I keep my eyes open when I go about the world." "Mr. Pratt," says she, "I always did admire a man of education. There are so few scholars among the sap-headed plug-uglies of this town that it is a real pleasure to converse with a gentleman of culture. I'd be gratified to have you call at my house whenever you feel so inclined." And that was the way I got the goodwill of the lady in the yellow house. Every Tuesday and Friday evening I used to go there and tell her about the wonders of the universe as discovered, tabulated, and compiled from nature by Herkimer. Idaho and the other gay Lutherans of the town got every minute of the rest of the week that they could. I never imagined that Idaho was trying to work on Mrs. Sampson with old K. M.'s rules of courtship till one afternoon when I was on my way over to take her a basket of wild hog-plums. I met the lady coming down the lane that led to her house. Her eyes was snapping, and her hat made a dangerous dip over one eye. "Mr. Pratt," she opens up, "this Mr. Green is a friend of yours, I believe." "For nine years," says I. "Cut him out," says she. "He's no gentleman!" "Why ma'am," says I, "he's a plain incumbent of the mountains, with asperities and the usual failings of a spendthrift and a liar, but I never on the most momentous occasion had the heart to deny that he was a gentleman. It may be that in haberdashery and the sense of arrogance and display Idaho offends the eye, but inside, ma'am, I've found him impervious to the lower grades of crime and obesity. After nine years of Idaho's society, Mrs. Sampson," I winds up, "I should hate to impute him, and I should hate to see him imputed." "It's right plausible of you, Mr. Pratt," says Mrs. Sampson, "to take up the curmudgeons in your friend's behalf; but it don't alter the fact that he has made proposals to me sufficiently obnoxious to ruffle the ignominy of any lady." "Why, now, now, now!" says I. "Old Idaho do that! I could believe it of myself, sooner. I never knew but one thing to deride in him; and a blizzard was responsible for that. Once while we was snow-bound in the mountains he became a prey to a kind of spurious and uneven poetry, which may have corrupted his demeanour." "It has," says Mrs. Sampson. "Ever since I knew him he has been reciting to me a lot of irreligious rhymes by some person he calls Ruby Ott, and who is no better than she should be, if you judge by her poetry." "Then Idaho has struck a new book," says I, "for the one he had was by a man who writes under the nom de plume of K. M." "He'd better have stuck to it," says Mrs. Sampson, "whatever it was. And to-day he caps the vortex. I get a bunch of flowers from him, and on 'em is pinned a note. Now, Mr. Pratt, you know a lady when you see her; and you know how I stand in Rosa society. Do you think for a moment that I'd skip out to the woods with a man along with a jug of wine and a loaf of bread, and go singing and cavorting up and down under the trees with him? I take a little claret with my meals, but I'm not in the habit of packing a jug of it into the brush and raising Cain in any such style as that. And of course he'd bring his book of verses along, too. He said so. Let him go on his scandalous picnics alone! Or let him take his Ruby Ott with him. I reckon she wouldn't kick unless it was on account of there being too much bread along. And what do you think of your gentleman friend now, Mr. Pratt?" "Well, 'm," says I, "it may be that Idaho's invitation was a kind of poetry, and meant no harm. May be it belonged to the class of rhymes they call figurative. They offend law and order, but they get sent through the mails on the grounds that they mean something that they don't say. I'd be glad on Idaho's account if you'd overlook it," says I, "and let us extricate our minds from the low regions of poetry to the higher planes of fact and fancy. On a beautiful afternoon like this, Mrs. Sampson," I goes on, "we should let our thoughts dwell accordingly. Though it is warm here, we should remember that at the equator the line of perpetual frost is at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet. Between the latitudes of forty degrees and forty-nine degrees it is from four thousand to nine thousand feet." "Oh, Mr. Pratt," says Mrs. Sampson, "it's such a comfort to hear you say them beautiful facts after getting such a jar from that minx of a Ruby's poetry!" "Let us sit on this log at the roadside," says I, "and forget the inhumanity and ribaldry of the poets. It is in the glorious columns of ascertained facts and legalised measures that beauty is to be found. In this very log we sit upon, Mrs. Sampson," says I, "is statistics more wonderful than any poem. The rings show it was sixty years old. At the depth of two thousand feet it would become coal in three thousand years. The deepest coal mine in the world is at Killingworth, near Newcastle. A box four feet long, three feet wide, and two feet eight inches deep will hold one ton of coal. If an artery is cut, compress it above the wound. A man's leg contains thirty bones. The Tower of London was burned in 1841." "Go on, Mr. Pratt," says Mrs. Sampson. "Them ideas is so original and soothing. I think statistics are just as lovely as they can be." But it wasn't till two weeks later that I got all that was coming to me out of Herkimer. One night I was waked up by folks hollering "Fire!" all around. I jumped up and dressed and went out of the hotel to enjoy the scene. When I see it was Mrs. Sampson's house, I gave forth a kind of yell, and I was there in two minutes. The whole lower story of the yellow house was in flames, and every masculine, feminine, and canine in Rosa was there, screeching and barking and getting in the way of the firemen. I saw Idaho trying to get away from six firemen who were holding him. They was telling him the whole place was on fire down-stairs, and no man could go in it and come out alive. "Where's Mrs. Sampson?" I asks. "She hasn't been seen," says one of the firemen. "She sleeps up- stairs. We've tried to get in, but we can't, and our company hasn't got any ladders yet." I runs around to the light of the big blaze, and pulls the Handbook out of my inside pocket. I kind of laughed when I felt it in my hands --I reckon I was some daffy with the sensation of excitement. "Herky, old boy," I says to it, as I flipped over the pages, "you ain't ever lied to me yet, and you ain't ever throwed me down at a scratch yet. Tell me what, old boy, tell me what!" says I. I turned to "What to do in Case of Accidents," on page 117. I run my finger down the page, and struck it. Good old Herkimer, he never overlooked anything! It said: Suffocation from Inhaling Smoke or Gas.--There is nothing better than flaxseed. Place a few seed in the outer corner of the eye. I shoved the Handbook back in my pocket, and grabbed a boy that was running by. "Here," says I, giving him some money, "run to the drug store and bring a dollar's worth of flaxseed. Hurry, and you'll get another one for yourself. Now," I sings out to the crowd, "we'll have Mrs. Sampson!" And I throws away my coat and hat. Four of the firemen and citizens grabs hold of me. It's sure death, they say, to go in the house, for the floors was beginning to fall through. "How in blazes," I sings out, kind of laughing yet, but not feeling like it, "do you expect me to put flaxseed in a eye without the eye?" I jabbed each elbow in a fireman's face, kicked the bark off of one citizen's shin, and tripped the other one with a side hold. And then I busted into the house. If I die first I'll write you a letter and tell you if it's any worse down there than the inside of that yellow house was; but don't believe it yet. I was a heap more cooked than the hurry-up orders of broiled chicken that you get in restaurants. The fire and smoke had me down on the floor twice, and was about to shame Herkimer, but the firemen helped me with their little stream of water, and I got to Mrs. Sampson's room. She'd lost conscientiousness from the smoke, so I wrapped her in the bed clothes and got her on my shoulder. Well, the floors wasn't as bad as they said, or I never could have done it--not by no means. I carried her out fifty yards from the house and laid her on the grass. Then, of course, every one of them other twenty-two plaintiff's to the lady's hand crowded around with tin dippers of water ready to save her. And up runs the boy with the flaxseed. I unwrapped the covers from Mrs. Sampson's head. She opened her eyes and says: "Is that you, Mr. Pratt?" "S-s-sh," says I. "Don't talk till you've had the remedy." I runs my arm around her neck and raises her head, gentle, and breaks the bag of flaxseed with the other hand; and as easy as I could I bends over and slips three or four of the seeds in the outer corner of her eye. Up gallops the village doc by this time, and snorts around, and grabs at Mrs. Sampson's pulse, and wants to know what I mean by any such sandblasted nonsense. "Well, old Jalap and Jerusalem oakseed," says I, "I'm no regular practitioner, but I'll show you my authority, anyway." They fetched my coat, and I gets out the Handbook. "Look on page 117," says I, "at the remedy for suffocation by smoke or gas. Flaxseed in the outer corner of the eye, it says. I don't know whether it works as a smoke consumer or whether it hikes the compound gastro-hippopotamus nerve into action, but Herkimer says it, and he was called to the case first. If you want to make it a consultation, there's no objection." Old doc takes the book and looks at it by means of his specs and a fireman's lantern. "Well, Mr. Pratt," says he, "you evidently got on the wrong line in reading your diagnosis. The recipe for suffocation says: 'Get the patient into fresh air as quickly as possible, and place in a reclining position.' The flaxseed remedy is for 'Dust and Cinders in the Eye,' on the line above. But, after all--" "See here," interrupts Mrs. Sampson, "I reckon I've got something to say in this consultation. That flaxseed done me more good than anything I ever tried." And then she raises up her head and lays it back on my arm again, and says: "Put some in the other eye, Sandy dear." And so if you was to stop off at Rosa to-morrow, or any other day, you'd see a fine new yellow house with Mrs. Pratt, that was Mrs. Sampson, embellishing and adorning it. And if you was to step inside you'd see on the marble-top centre table in the parlour "Herkimer's Handbook of Indispensable Information," all rebound in red morocco, and ready to be consulted on any subject pertaining to human happiness and wisdom. 本篇作者桑德森·普拉特认为合众国的教育系统应该划归气象局管理。我这种提法有充分根据；你却没有理由不主张把我们的院校教授调到气象部门去。他们都读书识字，可以毫不费劲地看看晨报，然后打电报把气象预报通知总局。不过这是问题的另一方面了。我现在要告诉你的是，气象如何向我和艾达荷·格林提供了良好的教育。     我们在蒙塔纳一带勘探金矿，来到苦根山脉。沃拉沃拉城有一个长络腮胡子的人，已经把发现矿苗的希望当作超重行李，准备放弃了。他把自己的粮食配备转让给了我们；我们便在山脚下慢慢勘探，手头的粮食足够维持在和平谈判会议期间的一支军队。     一天，卡洛斯城来了一个骑马的邮递员。路过山地时他歇歇脚，吃了三个青梅罐头，给我们留下一份近期的报纸。报上有一栏气象预报，它替苦根山脉地区翻出来的底牌是：“晴朗转暖，有轻微西风。”     那晚上开始下雪，刮起了强烈的东风。我和艾达荷转移到山上比较高一点的地方去，住在一幢空着的旧木屋里，认为这场十一月的风雪只是暂时的。但是雪下了三英尺深还不见有停的迹象，我们才知道这下要被雪困住了。雪还不太深的时候，我们已经弄来了大量的柴火，我们的粮食又足以维持两个月，因此并不担心，让经刮风下雪，爱怎么封山就怎么封吧。     假如你想教唆杀人，只消把两个人在一间十八英尺宽、二十英尺长的小屋子里关上一个月就行了。人类的天性忍受不了这种情况。     初下雪时，我同艾达荷·格林两人说说笑话，互相逗趣，并且赞美我们从锅子里倒出来，管它叫面包的东西。到了第三个星期的末尾，艾达荷向我发表了如下公告。他说：     “我从没听到酸牛奶从玻璃瓶里滴到铁皮锅底时的声音是什么样的，但是同你谈话器官里发出来的这种越来越没劲的滞涩的思想相比，滴酸奶的声音肯定可以算是仙乐了。你每天发出的这种叽哩咕噜的声音，叫我想起了牛的反刍。不同的只是牛比你知趣，不打扰别人，你却不然。”     “格林先生，”我说道，“你一度是我的朋友，我有点儿不好意思向你声明，如果我可以随自己的心意在你和一条普通的三条腿的小黄狗之间选择一个伙伴，那么这间小屋子里眼下就有一个居民在摇尾巴了。”     我们这样过了两三天，然后根本不交谈了。我们分了烹饪用具，艾达荷在火炉一边做饭，我在另一边做。外面的雪已经积到窗口，我们整天生着火。     你明白，我和艾达荷除了识字和在石板上做过“约翰有三只苹果，詹姆斯有五只苹果”之类的玩意儿以外，没有受过别的教育。我们浪迹江湖的时候，逐渐获得了一种可以应急的真实本领，因此对大学学位也就不感到特别需要。可是在被大雪封在苦根山脉的那幢小屋里的时候，我们初次感到，如果我们以前研究过茶马的作品，希腊文，教学中的分数以及比较高深的学问，那我们在沉思默想方面也许就能应付自如了。我在西部各地看到东部大学里出来的小伙子在牧场营地干活，我注意到教育对于他们却成了意想不到的累赘。举个例子说吧，有一次在蛇河边，安德鲁·麦克威廉斯的坐骑得出马蝇幼虫寄生病，他派辆四轮马车把十英里外一个据说是植物学家的陌生人请来。但那匹马仍旧死了。     [马蝇幼虫病(botts)和植物学家(botanist)原文字首相同，安德鲁以为二者有关。]     一天早晨，艾达荷用木棍在一个小木架的顶上拨什么东西，那个架子高了些，手够不着。有两本书落到地上。我跳起来想去拿，但是看到了艾达荷的眼色。这一星期来，他还是第一次开口。     “不准碰。”他说，“尽管你只配做休眠的泥乌龟的伙伴，我还是跟你公平交易。你爹妈养了你这样一个响尾蛇脾气，冻萝卜睡相的东西，他们给你的恩惠都比不上我给你的大。我同你打一副七分纸牌，赢的人先挑一本，输的人拿剩下的一本。”     我们打了牌；赢的是艾达荷。他先挑了他要的书；我拿了我的。我们两人回到各自的地方，开始看书。     我看到那本书时比看到一块十盎司重的天然金矿石还要快活。艾达荷看他那本书的时候，也象小孩看到棒棒糖那样高兴。     我那本书有五英寸宽、六英寸长，书名是《赫基默氏必要知识手册》。我的看法也许不正确，不过我认为那本书伟大得空前绝后。今天这本书还在我手头。我把书里的东西搬一点儿出来，在五分钟之内就可以把你或者随便什么人难倒五十次。别提所罗门或《纽约论坛报》了！赫基默比他们两个都强。那个人准是花了五十年时间，走了一百万里路，才收集到这许多材料。里面有各个城市的人口数，判断女人年龄的方法，和骆驼的牙齿数目。他告诉你世界上哪一条隧道最长，天上有多少星星，水痘要潜伏几天之后才发出来，上流女人的脖子该有多么粗细，州长怎样行使否决权，罗马人的引水渠是什么时候铺设的，每天喝三杯啤酒可以顶几磅大米的营养，缅因州奥古斯塔城的年平均温度是多少，用条播机一英亩胡萝卜需要多少种子，各种中毒的解救法，一个金发女人有多少根头发，如何储存鲜蛋，全世界所有大山的高度，所有战争战役的年代，如何抢救溺毙的人，如何抢救中暑病人，一磅平头钉有几只，如何制造炸药，如何种花，如何铺床，医生尚未来到之前应如何救护病人——此外还有许许多多东西。赫基默也许有他所不知道的事情，不过我在那本书里却没有发现。     我坐着，把那本书一连看了四个小时。教育的全部奇迹全压缩在那本书里了。我忘了雪，忘了我同老艾达荷之间的别扭。他一动不动地坐在凳子上，看得出了神，他那黄褐色的胡子里透出一种半是温柔半是神秘的模样。     “艾达荷，”我说，“你那本是什么书啊？”     艾达荷一定也忘了我们的芥蒂，因为他回答的口气很客气，既不顶撞人，也没有恶意。     “唔，”他说，“这本书大概是一个叫荷马·伽·谟的人写的。”     “荷马·伽·谟后面的姓是什么？”我问道。     [荷马·伽·谟：指波斯哲学家、天文学家、诗人欧玛尔·海亚姆（1048—1122），生前不以诗闻名。一八五九年英国诗人菲茨杰拉尔德把他的四行诗集译成英文出版，在欧美开始流传。一九二八年郭沫若从英文转译了该集，中译名为《鲁拜集》。这里艾达荷将“欧玛尔”误作“荷马”。]     “唔，就只有荷马·伽·谟。”他说。     “你胡扯。”我说。我认为艾达荷在蒙人，不禁有点冒火。“写书的人哪有用缩写署名的。总得有个姓呀，不是荷马·伽·谟·斯庞彭戴克，就是荷马·伽·谟·麦克斯温尼，或者是荷马·伽·谟·琼斯。你干吗不学人样，偏要像小牛啃晾衣绳上挂着的衬衫下摆那样，把他姓名的下半截啃掉？”     “我说的是实话，桑行。”艾达荷心平气和地说。“这是一本诗集，”他说，“荷马·伽·谟写的。起初我还看不出什么苗头，但是看下去却像找到了矿脉。即使拿两条红毯子来和我换这本书，我都不愿意。”     “那你请便吧。”我说。“我需要的是可以让我动动脑筋的开门见山的事实。我抽到的这本书里好象就有这种玩意儿。”     “你得到的只是统计数字，”艾达荷说，“世界上最起码的东西。它们会使你脑筋中草药毒。我喜欢老伽·谟的推测方式。他似乎是个酒类代理商。他干杯时的祝辞总是‘万般皆空’，他并且好象牢骚满腹，只不过他用酒把牢骚浇得那么滋润，即使他们抱怨得最厉害的时候，也像是在请人一起喝上一夸脱。总之，太有诗意了。”艾达荷说。“你看的那本胡说八道的书，想用尺寸衡量智慧，真叫我讨厌。凡是在用自然的艺术来解释哲理的时候，老伽·谟在任何一方面都打垮了你那个人——不论是条播机，一栏栏的数字，一段段的事实，胸围尺寸，或是年平均降雨量。”     我和艾达荷就这么混日子。不论白天黑夜，我们唯一的乐趣就是看书。那次雪封无疑使我们两人都长进了不少学问。到了融雪的时候，假如你突然走到我面前问我说：“桑德森·普拉特，用九块五毛钱一箱的铁皮来铺屋顶，铁皮的尺寸是二十乘二十八，每平方英尺要派到多少钱？”我便会飞快地回答你，正如闪电每秒钟能在铁铲把上走十九万两千英里那么快。世界上有多少人能这样？如果你在半夜里叫醒你所认识的任何一个人，让他马上回答，人的骨骼除了牙齿之外一共有几块，或者内布拉斯加州议会的投票要达到什么百分比才能推翻一顶否决，他能回答你吗？试试吧。     至于艾达荷从他那本诗集里得到了什么好处，那我可不清楚了。艾达荷一开口就替那个酒类代理商吹嘘；不过我认为他获益不多。     从艾达荷嘴里透露出来的那个荷马·伽·谟的诗歌看来，我觉得那家伙像是一条狗，把生活当作缚在尾巴上的铁皮罐子。它跑得半死之后，坐了下来，拖出舌头，看看酒罐说：     “唔，好吧，我们既然甩不掉这只酒罐，不如到街角的酒店里去沽满它，大家为我干一杯吧。”     此外，他仿佛还是波斯人；我从没听说波斯有什么值得一提的名产，除了土耳其毡毯和马耳他猫。     那年春天，我和艾达荷找到了有利可图的矿苗。我们有个习惯，就是出手快，周转快。我们出让了矿权，每人分到八千元；然后漫无目的地来到萨蒙河畔的罗萨小城，打算休息一个时期，吃些人吃的东西，刮掉胡子。     罗萨不是矿镇。它座落在山谷里，正如乡间小城一样，没有喧嚣和疫病。近郊且条三英里长的电车线；我和艾达荷坐在咔哒咔哒直响的车厢里面兜了一个星期，每天到晚上才回夕照旅馆休息。如今我们见识多广，又读过书，自然就参加了罗萨城里最上流的社交活动，经常被邀请出席最隆重、最时髦的招待会。有一次，市政厅举行为消防队募捐的钢琴独奏会和吃鹌鹑比赛，我和艾达荷初次认识了罗萨社交界的皇后，德·奥蒙德·桑普森夫人。桑普森夫人是个寡妇，城里唯一的一幢二层楼房就是她的。房子漆成黄色，不管从哪一个方向望去都看得清清楚楚，正如星期五斋戒日爱尔兰人胡子上沾的蛋黄那样引人注目。除了我和艾达荷之外，罗萨城还有二十二个男人想把那幢黄房子归为己有。     乐谱和鹌鹑骨头扫出市政厅后，举行了舞会。二十三个人都拥上去请桑普森夫人跳舞。我避开了两步舞，请她允许我伴送她回家。在那一点上，我获得了成功。     在回家的路上，她说：     “今晚的星星是不是又亮又美，普拉特先生？”     “就拿你看到的这些亮光来说，”我说道，“它们已经卖足了力气。你看到的那颗大星离这儿有六百六十亿英里远。它的光线传到我们这儿要花三十六年。你用十八英尺长的望远镜可以看到四千三百万颗星，包括十三等星。假如有一颗十三等星现在殒灭了，在今后二千七百年内，你仍旧可以看到它的亮光。”     “哎呀！”桑普森夫人说。“我以前从不知道这种事情，天气多热呀！我跳舞跳得太多了，浑身都湿透了。”     “这个问题很容易解释，”我说，“要知道，你身上有两百万根汗腺在同时分泌汗液。每根汗腺有四分之一英寸长。假如把身上所有的汗腺首尾相接，全长就有七英里。”     “天哪！”桑普森夫人说。“听你说的，人身上的汗腺简直像是灌溉水渠啦，普拉特先生。你怎么会懂得这许多事情？”     “观察来的，桑普森夫人。”我对她说。“我周游世界的时候总是注意观察。”     “普拉特先生，”她说，“我一向敬重有学问的人。在这个城里的傻瓜恶棍中有学问的人实在太缺啦。同一位有修养的先生谈话真是愉快。你高兴的话，随时请到我家来坐坐，我非常欢迎。”     这么一来，我就赢得了黄房子主人的好感。每星期二、五的晚上，我去她家，把赫基默发现、编制和引用的宇宙间的神秘讲给她听。艾达荷和城里其余主张寡妇再醮的人在尽量争取其余几天的每一分钟。     我从没想到艾达荷竟会把老伽·谟追求女人的方式应用到桑普森夫人身上；这是在一天下午，我提了一篮野李子给她送去时才发现的。我碰见那位太太走在一条通向她家的小径上。她眼睛直冒火，帽子斜遮在一只眼睛上，像是要打人吵架似的。     “普拉特先生，”她开口说，“我想那位格林先生大概是你的朋友吧。”     “有九年交情啦。”我说。     “同他绝交。”她说。“他不是正派人！”     “怎么啦，夫人，”我说，“他是个普通的山地人，具有浪子和骗子的粗暴和一般缺点，然而即使在最严重的关头，我也不忍心说他是不正派的人。拿服饰、傲慢和卖弄来说，艾达荷也许叫人看不顺眼，可是夫人，我知道他不会存心干出下流或出格的事情。我同艾达荷交了九年朋友，桑普森夫人，”我在结尾时说，“我不愿意说他的坏话，也不愿意听到人家说他的坏话。”     “普拉特先生，”桑普森夫人说，“你这样维护朋友固然是好事；但是他对我打了非常可恨的主意，任何一位有身份的女人都会觉得这是受了侮辱，这个事实你抹煞不了。”     “哎呀呀！”我说，“老艾达荷竟会干出这种事来！我怎么也想不到。我知道有一件事在他心里捣鬼；那是由于一场风雪的缘故。有一次，我们被雪封在山里，他被一种胡说八道的歪诗给迷住了，那也许就败坏了他的道德。”     “准是那样。”桑普森夫人说。“我一认识他，他就老是念一些亵渎神明的诗句给我听。他说那是一个叫鲁碧·奥特的人写的，你从她的诗来判断，那个女人肯定不是好东西。”     “那么说，艾达荷又弄到一本新书了，”我说，“据我所知，他那本是一个笔名叫伽·谟的男人写的。”     “不管什么书，”桑普森夫人说，“他还是守住一本为好。今天他简直无法无天了。他送给我一束花，上面附着一张纸条。普拉特先生，你总能分辨出上流女人的；并且你也了解我在我在罗萨城的名声。请你想想看，我会不会带着一大壶酒，一个面包，跟着一个男人溜到外面树林子里，同他在树荫底下唱歌，跳来跳去的？我吃饭的时候固然也喝一点葡萄酒，但是我决不会像他说的那样，带上一大壶到树林里支胡闹一通的。当然啦，他还要带上他那卷诗章。他这么说来着。让他一个人去吃那种丢人现眼的野餐吧！不然的话，让他带了他的鲁碧·奥特一起去。我想她是不会反对的。除非带的面包太多而酒太少。你现在对你的规矩朋友有什么看法呢，普拉特先生？”     “唔，夫人，”我说，“艾达荷的邀请也许只是诗情，并没有恶意。也许属于他们称之为比喻的诗。它们固然触犯法律和秩序，但还是允许邮递的，因为写的和想的不是一回事。如果你不见怪，我就代艾达荷表示感谢了，”我说，“现在让我们的心灵从低级的诗歌里解脱出来，到高级的事实和想象中去吧。像这样一个美丽的下午，桑普森夫人，”我接下去说，“我们的思想也应该与之相适应。这里虽然暖和，可我们应该知道，赤道上海拔一万五千英尺的地方还是终年积雪的。纬度四十到四十九度之间的地区，雪红就只有四千至九千英尺高了。”     “哦，普拉特先生，”桑普森夫人说，“听了鲁碧·奥特那个疯丫头的叫人不痛快的诗以后，再听你讲这种美妙的事实可真开心！”     “我们在路边这段木头上坐坐吧，”我说，“别去想诗人不近人情的撒野的话。只有在铁一般的事实和全法的度量衡的辉煌数字里，才能找到美妙的东西。在我们所坐的这段木头里，桑普森夫人，”我说，“就有比诗更神奇的统计数字。木头的年轮说明这棵树有六十岁。在两千英尺深的地底，经过三千年，它就会变成煤。世界上最深的煤矿在纽卡斯尔附近的基林沃斯。一只四英尺长、三英尺宽、二英尺八高的箱子可以装一吨煤。假如动脉割破了，要按住伤口的上方。人的腿有三十根骨头。伦敦塔一八四一年曾遭火灾。”     [伦敦塔：伦敦东部俯临泰晤士河的堡垒，原是皇宫，曾改做监狱，办、囚禁过好几个国王、王后等著名人物，现是文物保存处。]     “说下去，普拉特先生，”桑普森夫人说，“这种话真有创造性，听了真舒服。我想再没有什么比统计数字更可爱了。”     可是两星期后，我才得到了赫基默给我的全部好处。     有一夜，我被人们到处叫嚷“失火啦！”的声音惊醒。我跳下床，穿好衣服，跑出旅馆去看热闹。赶上我发现失火的正是桑普森夫人的房屋，我大叫一声，两分钟这内就赶到了现场。     那幢黄房子的底层全部着火了，罗萨城的每一个男性、女性和狗性都在那里号叫，碍消防队员的事。我见到艾达荷想从拽住他的六名消防队员手里挣脱出来。他们对他说，楼下一片火海，谁冲进去休想活着出来。     “桑普森夫人呢？”我问道。     “没见到她。”一个消防队员说。“她睡在楼上。我们想进去，可是不成，我们队里还没有云梯。”     我跑近大火旁边光亮的地方，从里面的口袋里掏出《手册》。我拿着这本书的时候差点没笑出来——我想大概是紧张过度，昏了头。     “赫基，老朋友，”我一面拼命翻，一面对书本说，“你还没有骗过我，你还没有使我失望过。告诉我该怎么办，老朋友，告诉我该怎么办！”我说。     我翻到一百一十七页，“遇到意外事件该怎么办。”我用手指顺着找下去，果然找到了。老赫基默真了不起，他从没有疏漏！书上说：     吸入烟气或煤气而而引起的窒息——用亚麻籽最佳。取数粒置外眼角内。     我把《手册》塞回口袋，抓住一个正跑过去的小孩。     “喂，”我给了他一些钱，说道，“赶快到药房里去买一块钱的亚麻籽。要快，另一块钱给你。喂，”我对人群嚷道，“我们救桑普森夫人呀！”接着，我脱掉了上衣和帽子。     消防队和老百姓中有四个人拖住了我。他们说，进去准会送命，因为楼板就要烧坍了。     “该死！”我嚷起来，有点像是在笑，可是笑不出来，“没有眼睛叫我把亚麻籽放到哪儿去呀？”     我用胳臂肘撞在两个消防队员的脸上，用脚踢破了一个老百姓的脚胫皮，又使一个绊子，把另一个摔倒在地。紧接着，我冲进屋里。假如我比你们先死，我一准写信告诉你们，地狱里是不是比那幢黄房子里更不受用；现在你们可别相信我的话。总之，我比饭馆里特别加快的烤鸡烤得更糊。烟和火把我熏倒了两次，几乎丢了赫基默的脸；幸好消防队员用他们的细水龙杀了一点火气，帮了我的忙，总算到了桑普森夫人的房间里。她已经被烟熏得失去了羞耻心，于是我用被单把她一裹，往肩上一扛。楼板并不像他们所说的那样糟，不然我也干不了——想都不用想。     我扛着她，一口气跑到离房子五十码远的地方，然后把她放在草地上。接着，另外二十二个追求这位夫人的原告当然也拿着铁皮水勺挤拢来，准备救她了。这时候，去买亚麻籽的小孩也跑来了。     我揭开包在桑普森夫人头上的被单。她睁开眼睛说：     “是你吗，普拉特先生？”     “嘘——嘘，”我说，“别出声，我先给你上药。”     我用胳臂轻轻托住她的脖子，扶起她的头，用另一只手扯破亚麻籽口袋，慢慢弯下身子，在她外眼角里放了三四粒亚麻籽。     这时，城里的医生也赶来了，他喷着鼻子，抓住桑普森太太的腕子试脉搏，并且问我这样胡搞是什么意思。     “嗯，老球根药喇叭和耶路撒冷橡树籽，”我说，“我不是正式医师，不过我可以给你看看我的根据。”     他们拿来了我的上衣，我掏了了《手册》。     “请看一百一十七页，”我说，“那上面就讲到如何解救因烟或煤气而引起的窒息。书上说，把亚麻籽的作用是解烟毒呢，还是促进复合胃神经的机能，不过赫基默是这样说的，并且先给请来诊治的是他。假如你要会诊，我也不反对。”     老医生拿起《手册》，戴上眼镜，凑着消防队员的灯笼看看。     “哎，普拉特先生，”他说，“你诊断的时候显然看串了行。解救窒息的办法是：‘尽快将病人移至新鲜空气中，置于卧位。’用亚麻籽的地方在上面一行，‘尘灰入眼’。不过，说到头——”     “听我说，”桑普森太太插嘴说，“在这次会诊中，我想我也有话要说。那些亚麻籽给我的益处比我试过的任何东西都大。”她抬起头，又枕在我的手臂上，说道：“在另一个眼睛里也放一点，亲爱的桑德。”     因此，假如你明天或者随便哪一天在罗萨城歇歇脚的话，你会看到一幢新盖的精致的黄房子，有普拉特夫人——也就是以前的桑普森夫人——在收拾它，装点它。假如你走进屋子，你还会看到客厅当中大理石面的桌子上有一本《赫基默氏必要知识手册》，重新用红色摩洛哥皮装订过了，准备让人随时查考有关人类幸福和智慧的任何事物。

The Pimienta Pancakes比绵塔薄饼 While we were rounding up a bunch of the Triangle-O cattle in the Frio bottoms a projecting branch of a dead mesquite caught my wooden stirrup and gave my ankle a wrench that laid me up in camp for a week. On the third day of my compulsory idleness I crawled out near the grub wagon, and reclined helpless under the conversational fire of Judson Odom, the camp cook. Jud was a monologist by nature, whom Destiny, with customary blundering, had set in a profession wherein he was bereaved, for the greater portion of his time, of an audience. Therefore, I was manna in the desert of Jud's obmutescence. Betimes I was stirred by invalid longings for something to eat that did not come under the caption of "grub." I had visions of the maternal pantry "deep as first love, and wild with all regret," and then I asked: "Jud, can you make pancakes?" Jud laid down his six-shooter, with which he was preparing to pound an antelope steak, and stood over me in what I felt to be a menacing attitude. He further endorsed my impression that his pose was resentful by fixing upon me with his light blue eyes a look of cold suspicion. "Say, you," he said, with candid, though not excessive, choler, "did you mean that straight, or was you trying to throw the gaff into me? Some of the boys been telling you about me and that pancake racket?" "No, Jud," I said, sincerely, "I meant it. It seems to me I'd swap my pony and saddle for a stack of buttered brown pancakes with some first crop, open kettle, New Orleans sweetening. Was there a story about pancakes?" Jud was mollified at once when he saw that I had not been dealing in allusions. He brought some mysterious bags and tin boxes from the grub wagon and set them in the shade of the hackberry where I lay reclined. I watched him as he began to arrange them leisurely and untie their many strings. "No, not a story," said Jud, as he worked, "but just the logical disclosures in the case of me and that pink-eyed snoozer from Mired Mule Canada and Miss Willella Learight. I don't mind telling you. "I was punching then for old Bill Toomey, on the San Miguel. One day I gets all ensnared up in aspirations for to eat some canned grub that hasn't ever mooed or baaed or grunted or been in peck measures. So, I gets on my bronc and pushes the wind for Uncle Emsley Telfair's store at the Pimienta Crossing on the Nueces. "About three in the afternoon I throwed my bridle rein over a mesquite limb and walked the last twenty yards into Uncle Emsley's store. I got up on the counter and told Uncle Emsley that the signs pointed to the devastation of the fruit crop of the world. In a minute I had a bag of crackers and a long-handled spoon, with an open can each of apricots and pineapples and cherries and greengages beside of me with Uncle Emsley busy chopping away with the hatchet at the yellow clings. I was feeling like Adam before the apple stampede, and was digging my spurs into the side of the counter and working with my twenty-four-inch spoon when I happened to look out of the window into the yard of Uncle Emsley's house, which was next to the store. "There was a girl standing there--an imported girl with fixings on-- philandering with a croquet maul and amusing herself by watching my style of encouraging the fruit canning industry. "I slid off the counter and delivered up my shovel to Uncle Emsley. "'That's my niece,' says he; 'Miss Willella Learight, down from Palestine on a visit. Do you want that I should make you acquainted?' "'The Holy Land,' I says to myself, my thoughts milling some as I tried to run 'em into the corral. 'Why not? There was sure angels in Pales--Why, yes, Uncle Emsley,' I says out loud, 'I'd be awful edified to meet Miss Learight.' "So Uncle Emsley took me out in the yard and gave us each other's entitlements. "I never was shy about women. I never could understand why some men who can break a mustang before breakfast and shave in the dark, get all left-handed and full of perspiration and excuses when they see a bold of calico draped around what belongs to it. Inside of eight minutes me and Miss Willella was aggravating the croquet balls around as amiable as second cousins. She gave me a dig about the quantity of canned fruit I had eaten, and I got back at her, flat-footed, about how a certain lady named Eve started the fruit trouble in the first free-grass pasture--'Over in Palestine, wasn't it?' says I, as easy and pat as roping a one-year-old. "That was how I acquired cordiality for the proximities of Miss Willella Learight; and the disposition grew larger as time passed. She was stopping at Pimienta Crossing for her health, which was very good, and for the climate, which was forty per cent. hotter than Palestine. I rode over to see her once every week for a while; and then I figured it out that if I doubled the number of trips I would see her twice as often. "One week I slipped in a third trip; and that's where the pancakes and the pink-eyed snoozer busted into the game. "That evening, while I set on the counter with a peach and two damsons in my mouth, I asked Uncle Emsley how Miss Willella was. "'Why,' says Uncle Emsley, 'she's gone riding with Jackson Bird, the sheep man from over at Mired Mule Canada.' "I swallowed the peach seed and the two damson seeds. I guess somebody held the counter by the bridle while I got off; and then I walked out straight ahead till I butted against the mesquite where my roan was tied. "'She's gone riding,' I whisper in my bronc's ear, 'with Birdstone Jack, the hired mule from Sheep Man's Canada. Did you get that, old Leather-and-Gallops?' "That bronc of mine wept, in his way. He'd been raised a cow pony and he didn't care for snoozers. "I went back and said to Uncle Emsley: 'Did you say a sheep man?' "'I said a sheep man,' says Uncle Emsley again. 'You must have heard tell of Jackson Bird. He's got eight sections of grazing and four thousand head of the finest Merinos south of the Arctic Circle.' "I went out and sat on the ground in the shade of the store and leaned against a prickly pear. I sifted sand into my boots with unthinking hands while I soliloquised a quantity about this bird with the Jackson plumage to his name. "I never had believed in harming sheep men. I see one, one day, reading a Latin grammar on hossback, and I never touched him! They never irritated me like they do most cowmen. You wouldn't go to work now, and impair and disfigure snoozers, would you, that eat on tables and wear little shoes and speak to you on subjects? I had always let 'em pass, just as you would a jack-rabbit; with a polite word and a guess about the weather, but no stopping to swap canteens. I never thought it was worth while to be hostile with a snoozer. And because I'd been lenient, and let 'em live, here was one going around riding with Miss Willella Learight! "An hour by sun they come loping back, and stopped at Uncle Emsley's gate. The sheep person helped her off; and they stood throwing each other sentences all sprightful and sagacious for a while. And then this feathered Jackson flies up in his saddle and raises his little stewpot of a hat, and trots off in the direction of his mutton ranch. By this time I had turned the sand out of my boots and unpinned myself from the prickly pear; and by the time he gets half a mile out of Pimienta, I singlefoots up beside him on my bronc. "I said that snoozer was pink-eyed, but he wasn't. His seeing arrangement was grey enough, but his eye-lashes was pink and his hair was sandy, and that gave you the idea. Sheep man?--he wasn't more than a lamb man, anyhow--a little thing with his neck involved in a yellow silk handkerchief, and shoes tied up in bowknots. "'Afternoon!' says I to him. 'You now ride with a equestrian who is commonly called Dead-Moral-Certainty Judson, on account of the way I shoot. When I want a stranger to know me I always introduce myself before the draw, for I never did like to shake hands with ghosts.' "'Ah,' says he, just like that--'Ah, I'm glad to know you, Mr. Judson. I'm Jackson Bird, from over at Mired Mule Ranch.' "Just then one of my eyes saw a roadrunner skipping down the hill with a young tarantula in his bill, and the other eye noticed a rabbit-hawk sitting on a dead limb in a water-elm. I popped over one after the other with my forty-five, just to show him. 'Two out of three,' says I. 'Birds just naturally seem to draw my fire wherever I go.' "'Nice shooting,' says the sheep man, without a flutter. 'But don't you sometimes ever miss the third shot? Elegant fine rain that was last week for the young grass, Mr. Judson?' says he. "'Willie,' says I, riding over close to his palfrey, 'your infatuated parents may have denounced you by the name of Jackson, but you sure moulted into a twittering Willie--let us slough off this here analysis of rain and the elements, and get down to talk that is outside the vocabulary of parrots. That is a bad habit you have got of riding with young ladies over at Pimienta. I've known birds,' says I, 'to be served on toast for less than that. Miss Willella,' says I, 'don't ever want any nest made out of sheep's wool by a tomtit of the Jacksonian branch of ornithology. Now, are you going to quit, or do you wish for to gallop up against this Dead-Moral-Certainty attachment to my name, which is good for two hyphens and at least one set of funeral obsequies?' "Jackson Bird flushed up some, and then he laughed. "'Why, Mr. Judson,' says he, 'you've got the wrong idea. I've called on Miss Learight a few times; but not for the purpose you imagine. My object is purely a gastronomical one.' "I reached for my gun. "'Any coyote,' says I, 'that would boast of dishonourable--' "'Wait a minute,' says this Bird, 'till I explain. What would I do with a wife? If you ever saw that ranch of mine! I do my own cooking and mending. Eating--that's all the pleasure I get out of sheep raising. Mr. Judson, did you ever taste the pancakes that Miss Learight makes?' "'Me? No,' I told him. 'I never was advised that she was up to any culinary manoeuvres.' "'They're golden sunshine,' says he, 'honey-browned by the ambrosial fires of Epicurus. I'd give two years of my life to get the recipe for making them pancakes. That's what I went to see Miss Learight for,' says Jackson Bird, 'but I haven't been able to get it from her. It's an old recipe that's been in the family for seventy-five years. They hand it down from one generation to another, but they don't give it away to outsiders. If I could get that recipe, so I could make them pancakes for myself on my ranch, I'd be a happy man,' says Bird. "'Are you sure,' I says to him, 'that it ain't the hand that mixes the pancakes that you're after?' "'Sure,' says Jackson. 'Miss Learight is a mighty nice girl, but I can assure you my intentions go no further than the gastro--' but he seen my hand going down to my holster and he changed his similitude--'than the desire to procure a copy of the pancake recipe,' he finishes. "'You ain't such a bad little man,' says I, trying to be fair. 'I was thinking some of making orphans of your sheep, but I'll let you fly away this time. But you stick to pancakes,' says I, 'as close as the middle one of a stack; and don't go and mistake sentiments for syrup, or there'll be singing at your ranch, and you won't hear it.' "'To convince you that I am sincere,' says the sheep man, 'I'll ask you to help me. Miss Learight and you being closer friends, maybe she would do for you what she wouldn't for me. If you will get me a copy of that pancake recipe, I give you my word that I'll never call upon her again.' "'That's fair,' I says, and I shook hands with Jackson Bird. 'I'll get it for you if I can, and glad to oblige.' And he turned off down the big pear flat on the Piedra, in the direction of Mired Mule; and I steered northwest for old Bill Toomey's ranch. "It was five days afterward when I got another chance to ride over to Pimienta. Miss Willella and me passed a gratifying evening at Uncle Emsley's. She sang some, and exasperated the piano quite a lot with quotations from the operas. I gave imitations of a rattlesnake, and told her about Snaky McFee's new way of skinning cows, and described the trip I made to Saint Louis once. We was getting along in one another's estimations fine. Thinks I, if Jackson Bird can now be persuaded to migrate, I win. I recollect his promise about the pancake receipt, and I thinks I will persuade it from Miss Willella and give it to him; and then if I catches Birdie off of Mired Mule again, I'll make him hop the twig. "So, along about ten o'clock, I put on a wheedling smile and says to Miss Willella: 'Now, if there's anything I do like better than the sight of a red steer on green grass it's the taste of a nice hot pancake smothered in sugar-house molasses.' "Miss Willella gives a little jump on the piano stool, and looked at me curious. "'Yes,' says she, 'they're real nice. What did you say was the name of that street in Saint Louis, Mr. Odom, where you lost your hat?' "'Pancake Avenue,' says I, with a wink, to show her that I was on about the family receipt, and couldn't be side-corralled off of the subject. 'Come, now, Miss Willella,' I says; 'let's hear how you make 'em. Pancakes is just whirling in my head like wagon wheels. Start her off, now--pound of flour, eight dozen eggs, and so on. How does the catalogue of constituents run?' "'Excuse me for a moment, please,' says Miss Willella, and she gives me a quick kind of sideways look, and slides off the stool. She ambled out into the other room, and directly Uncle Emsley comes in in his shirt sleeves, with a pitcher of water. He turns around to get a glass on the table, and I see a forty-five in his hip pocket. 'Great post- holes!' thinks I, 'but here's a family thinks a heap of cooking receipts, protecting it with firearms. I've known outfits that wouldn't do that much by a family feud.' "'Drink this here down,' says Uncle Emsley, handing me the glass of water. 'You've rid too far to-day, Jud, and got yourself over-excited. Try to think about something else now.' "'Do you know how to make them pancakes, Uncle Emsley?' I asked. "'Well, I'm not as apprised in the anatomy of them as some,' says Uncle Emsley, 'but I reckon you take a sifter of plaster of Paris and a little dough and saleratus and corn meal, and mix 'em with eggs and buttermilk as usual. Is old Bill going to ship beeves to Kansas City again this spring, Jud?' "That was all the pancake specifications I could get that night. I didn't wonder that Jackson Bird found it uphill work. So I dropped the subject and talked with Uncle Emsley for a while about hollow-horn and cyclones. And then Miss Willella came and said 'Good-night,' and I hit the breeze for the ranch. "About a week afterward I met Jackson Bird riding out of Pimienta as I rode in, and we stopped on the road for a few frivolous remarks. "'Got the bill of particulars for them flapjacks yet?' I asked him. "'Well, no,' says Jackson. 'I don't seem to have any success in getting hold of it. Did you try?' "'I did,' says I, 'and 'twas like trying to dig a prairie dog out of his hole with a peanut hull. That pancake receipt must be a jookalorum, the way they hold on to it.' "'I'm most ready to give it up,' says Jackson, so discouraged in his pronunciations that I felt sorry for him; 'but I did want to know how to make them pancakes to eat on my lonely ranch,' says he. 'I lie awake at nights thinking how good they are.' "'You keep on trying for it,' I tells him, 'and I'll do the same. One of us is bound to get a rope over its horns before long. Well, so- long, Jacksy.' "You see, by this time we were on the peacefullest of terms. When I saw that he wasn't after Miss Willella, I had more endurable contemplations of that sandy-haired snoozer. In order to help out the ambitions of his appetite I kept on trying to get that receipt from Miss Willella. But every time I would say 'pancakes' she would get sort of remote and fidgety about the eye, and try to change the subject. If I held her to it she would slide out and round up Uncle Emsley with his pitcher of water and hip-pocket howitzer. "One day I galloped over to the store with a fine bunch of blue verbenas that I cut out of a herd of wild flowers over on Poisoned Dog Prairie. Uncle Emsley looked at 'em with one eye shut and says: "'Haven't ye heard the news?' "'Cattle up?' I asks. "'Willella and Jackson Bird was married in Palestine yesterday,' says he. 'Just got a letter this morning.' "I dropped them flowers in a cracker-barrel, and let the news trickle in my ears and down toward my upper left-hand shirt pocket until it got to my feet. "'Would you mind saying that over again once more, Uncle Emsley?' says I. 'Maybe my hearing has got wrong, and you only said that prime heifers was 4.80 on the hoof, or something like that.' "'Married yesterday,' says Uncle Emsley, 'and gone to Waco and Niagara Falls on a wedding tour. Why, didn't you see none of the signs all along? Jackson Bird has been courting Willella ever since that day he took her out riding.' "'Then,' says I, in a kind of yell, 'what was all this zizzaparoola he gives me about pancakes? Tell me that.' "When I said 'pancakes' Uncle Emsley sort of dodged and stepped back. "'Somebody's been dealing me pancakes from the bottom of the deck,' I says, 'and I'll find out. I believe you know. Talk up,' says I, 'or we'll mix a panful of batter right here.' "I slid over the counter after Uncle Emsley. He grabbed at his gun, but it was in a drawer, and he missed it two inches. I got him by the front of his shirt and shoved him in a corner. "'Talk pancakes,' says I, 'or be made into one. Does Miss Willella make 'em?' "'She never made one in her life and I never saw one,' says Uncle Emsley, soothing. 'Calm down now, Jud--calm down. You've got excited, and that wound in your head is contaminating your sense of intelligence. Try not to think about pancakes.' "'Uncle Emsley,' says I, 'I'm not wounded in the head except so far as my natural cognitive instincts run to runts. Jackson Bird told me he was calling on Miss Willella for the purpose of finding out her system of producing pancakes, and he asked me to help him get the bill of lading of the ingredients. I done so, with the results as you see. Have I been sodded down with Johnson grass by a pink-eyed snoozer, or what?' "'Slack up your grip in my dress shirt,' says Uncle Emsley, 'and I'll tell you. Yes, it looks like Jackson Bird has gone and humbugged you some. The day after he went riding with Willella he came back and told me and her to watch out for you whenever you got to talking about pancakes. He said you was in camp once where they was cooking flapjacks, and one of the fellows cut you over the head with a frying pan. Jackson said that whenever you got overhot or excited that wound hurt you and made you kind of crazy, and you went raving about pancakes. He told us to just get you worked off of the subject and soothed down, and you wouldn't be dangerous. So, me and Willella done the best by you we knew how. Well, well,' says Uncle Emsley, 'that Jackson Bird is sure a seldom kind of a snoozer.'" During the progress of Jud's story he had been slowly but deftly combining certain portions of the contents of his sacks and cans. Toward the close of it he set before me the finished product--a pair of red-hot, rich-hued pancakes on a tin plate. From some secret hoarding he also brought a lump of excellent butter and a bottle of golden syrup. "How long ago did these things happen?" I asked him. "Three years," said Jud. "They're living on the Mired Mule Ranch now. But I haven't seen either of 'em since. They say Jackson Bird was fixing his ranch up fine with rocking chairs and window curtains all the time he was putting me up the pancake tree. Oh, I got over it after a while. But the boys kept the racket up." "Did you make these cakes by the famous recipe?" I asked. "Didn't I tell you there wasn't no receipt?" said Jud. "The boys hollered pancakes till they got pancake hungry, and I cut this recipe out of a newspaper. How does the truck taste?" "They're delicious," I answered. "Why don't you have some, too, Jud?" I was sure I heard a sigh. "Me?" said Jud. "I don't ever eat 'em." 当我们在弗里奥山麓，骑着马把一群烙有圆圈三角印记的牛赶拢在一起时，一株枯死的牧豆树的枝桠钩住了我的木马镫，害得我扭伤了脚踝，在营地里躺了一个星期。 被迫休息的第三天，我一拐一拐地挨到炊事车旁，在营地厨师贾德森·奥多姆的连珠炮似的谈话下一筹莫展地躺着。贾德天生爱说话，说起来没完没了，可是造化弄人，让他当了厨师，害得他在大部分时间里找不到听他说话的人。 因此，在贾德一声不吭的沙漠里，我便成了他的灵食。 [灵食：《旧约·出埃及记》十六章十四至三十五节：摩西率领以色列人世间逃出埃及，在荒野中漂泊了四十年，饥饿时，上帝便撒下灵食。] 不多一会儿，我起了一阵病人的贪馋，想吃一些不在“伙食”项下的东西。我想起了母亲的食柜，不由得“情深如初恋，惆怅复黯然”。于是我问道： [引自英国诗人丁尼生的叙事诗《公主》中的歌曲：“情深如初恋，惆怅复黯然；人生如流云，往日不再回。”] “贾德，你会做薄饼吗？” 贾德放下刚准备用来捣羚羊肉排的六响手熗，带着我认为是威胁的态度，走到我面前。他那双浅蓝色的眼睛猜疑地瞪着我，更叫我感到了他的忿恨。 “喂，”他说，虽然怒形于色，但还没有出格，“你是真心问我，还是想挖苦我？是不是有人把我和薄饼的底细告诉了你？” “不，贾德，”我诚恳地说，“决没有别的用意。我只不过很想吃一些用黄油烙得黄黄的薄饼，上面还浇着新上市的，大铁皮桶装的新奥尔良蜂蜜。我愿意拿我的小马和马鞍来换一叠这样的薄饼。说起薄饼，难道还有什么故事吗？” 贾德明白了我不是含沙射影之后，神色马上和缓了。他从炊事车里取出一些神秘的口袋和铁皮盒子，放在我依靠的那株树下。我看他不慌不忙地张罗起来，解开拴口袋的绳子。 “其实也算不上是什么故事，”贾德一面干活，一面说，“只是我同陷骡山谷来的那个粉红眼睛的牧羊人以及威莱拉·利赖特小姐之间一桩事情的合乎逻辑的结局罢了。告诉你也不妨。” “那时候，我在圣米格尔牧场替老比尔·图米赶牛。有一天，我一心想吃些罐头仪器只要不哞，不咩，不哼或者不啄的东西都行。于是我跨上我那匹还未调教好的小野马，飞快地直奔纽西斯河比绵塔渡口埃姆斯利·特尔费尔大叔的店铺。 [“不哞，不咩，不哼或者不啄的东西”：指牛、羊、猪和家禽。] “下午三点钟左右，我把缰绳往一根牧豆树枝上一套，下马走了二十码，来到埃姆斯利大叔的铺子。我登上柜台，对埃姆斯利大叔说，看情况全世界的水果收成都要受灾了。不出一分钟，我拿着一袋饼干和一把长匙，身边摆着一个个打开的杏子、菠萝、樱桃和青梅罐头，埃姆斯利还在手忙脚乱地用斧头砍开罐头的黄色铁皮箍。我快活得像是没闹苹果乱子以前的亚当。我把靴子上的踢马刺往柜台板壁里插，手里挥弄着那把二十四英寸的匙子；这当儿，我偶然抬头一望，从窗口里看到铺子隔壁埃姆斯利大叔家的后院。 “有个姑娘站在那儿——一个打扮得漂漂亮亮的外路来的姑娘——她一面玩弄着槌球棍，一面看着我那促进水果罐头工业的劲头，在那里暗自发笑。 “我从柜台上滑下来，把手里的匙子交给埃姆斯利大叔。 “‘那是我的外甥女儿，’他说，‘威莱拉·利赖特小姐，从巴勒斯坦来做客。要不要我替你们介绍介绍？’ “‘圣地哪。’我暗忖道，我的思想像牛群一样，我要把它们赶进栅栏里去，它们却乱兜圈子。‘怎么不是呢？天使们当然在巴勒——当然啦，埃姆斯利大叔，’我高声说，‘我非常高兴见见利赖特小姐。’ “于是，埃姆斯利大叔把我引到后院，替我们介绍了一下。 “我在女人面前从不腼腆。我一直弄不明白，有的男人没吃早饭都能制服一匹野马，在漆黑的地方都能刮胡子，为什么一见到穿花衣裳的大姑娘却变得缩手缩脚，汗流浃背，连话都说不上来了。不出八分钟，我同利赖特小姐已经在作弄槌球，混得像表兄妹好般亲热了。她取笑我，说我吃了那么多罐头水果。我马上回敬她，说水果乱子是一位叫做夏娃的太太在第一个天然牧场里闹出来的——‘在巴勒斯坦那面，对吗？’我随机应变地说，正像用套索捕捉一头一岁的小马那样轻松。 “就那样，我获得了接近威莱拉·利赖特小姐的机会；日子一久，关系逐渐密切。她待在比绵塔渡口是为了她的健康和比绵塔的气候，其实她的健康情况非常好，而比绵塔的气候要比巴勒斯坦热百分之四十。开始时，我每星期骑马到她那里去一次；后来我盘算了一下，如果我把去的次数加一倍，我见到她的次数也会增加一倍了。 “有一星期，我去了三次；就在那第三次里，薄饼和淡红眼睛的牧羊人插进来了。 “那晚，我坐在柜台上，嘴里含着一只桃子和两只李子，一边问埃姆斯利大叔，威莱拉小姐可好。 “‘哟，’埃姆斯利大叔说，‘她同陷骡山谷里的那个牧羊人杰克逊·伯德出去骑马了。’ “我把一颗桃核、两颗李核囫囵吞了下去。我跳下柜台时，大概有人抓住了柜台，不然它早就翻了。接着，我两眼发直地跑出去，直到撞在我拴那匹杂毛马的牧豆树上才停住。 “‘她出去骑马了，’我凑在那头小野马耳朵旁边说，‘同伯德斯通·杰克，牧羊人山谷那头驮骡一起去的。明白了吗，你这个挨鞭子才跑的老家伙？’ “我那匹小马以它自己的方式哭了一通。它是从小就给驯养来牧牛的，它才不关心牧羊人呢。 “我又回到埃姆斯利大叔那儿，问他：‘你说是的牧羊人吗？’ “‘是牧羊人。’大叔又说了一遍。‘你一定听人家谈起过杰克逊·伯德。他有八个牧场和四千头在北冰洋以南数最好的美利奴绵羊。’ “我走进来，在店铺背阳的一边坐下，往一株带刺的霸王树上一靠。我自言自语，说了许多关于这个名叫杰克逊的恶鸟的话，两手不知不觉地抓起沙子往靴筒里灌。 [杰克逊·伯德的姓原文是Bird，有“鸟”的含义。] “我一向不愿意欺侮牧羊人。有一次，我看到一个牧羊人坐在马背上读拉丁文法，我连碰都没有碰他！我不像大多数牧牛人那样，看见他们就有气。牧羊人都在桌上吃饭，穿着小尺码的鞋子，同你有说有笑，难道你能跟他们动粗，整治他们，害得他们破相吗？我总是抬抬手放他们过去，正如放兔子过去那样；最多讲一两句客套话，寒暄寒暄，从来不停下来同他们喝两杯。我认为根本犯不着同一个牧羊人过不去。正因为我宽大为怀，网开一面，现在居然有个牧羊人跑来同威莱拉·利赖特小姐骑马了！ “太阳下山前一小时，他们骑着马缓缓而来，在埃姆斯利大叔家门口停住了。牧羊人扶她下了马。他们站着，兴致勃勃，风趣横生地交谈了一会儿。随后，这个有羽毛的杰克逊跃上马鞍，掀掀他那顶小炖锅似的帽子，朝他的羊肉牧场那方向跑去。这时候，我把靴子里的沙子抖搂了出来，挣脱了霸王树上的刺；在离比绵塔半英里光景的地方，我策马赶上了他。 “我先前说过，牧羊人的眼睛是粉红色的，其实不然。他那看东西的家什倒是灰色的，只不过睫毛泛红，头发又是沙黄色，因此给人以一种错觉。那个牧羊人其实只能算是牧羔人——身材瘦小，脖子上围着一条黄绸巾，鞋带打成蝴蝶结。 “‘借光。’我对他说。‘现在骑马同你一道走的是素有“百发百中”之称的贾德森，那是由于我打熗的路数。每当我要让一个陌生人知道我时，我拔熗之前总是要自我介绍一下，因为我向来不喜欢同死鬼握手。’ “‘啊，’他说，说话时就是那副神气——‘啊，幸会幸会，贾德森先生。我是陷骡牧场那儿的杰克逊·伯德。’ “这时，我一眼见到一只槲鸡叼着一只毒蜘蛛从山上跳下来，另一眼见到一只猎兔鹰栖息在水榆的枯枝上。我拔出四五口径的手熗，砰砰两响，把它们先后打翻，给杰克逊·伯德看看我的熗法。‘不管在哪儿，’我说，‘我见到鸟儿就想打，三回当中有两回是这样。’ “‘熗法不坏。’牧羊人不动声色地说。‘不过你第三回打的时候会不会偶尔失风呢？上星期的那场雨水对新草大有好处，是吗，贾德森先生？’他说。 “‘威利，’我靠近他那匹小马，‘宠你的爹妈也许管你叫杰克逊，可是你换了羽毛之后却成了一个嘁嘁喳喳的威利——我们不必研究雨水和气候，还是用鹦哥词汇以外的言语来谈谈吧。你同比绵塔的年轻姑娘一起骑马，这个习惯可不好。我知道有些鸟儿，’我说，‘还没有坏到那个地步就给烤来吃了。威莱拉小姐，’我说，‘并不需要鸟族杰克逊科的山雀替她用羊毛筑一个窝。现在，你打算撒手呢，还是想试试我这包办丧事的百发百中的诨名？’ “杰克逊·伯德脸有点红，接着却呵呵笑了。 “‘哎，贾德森先生，’他说，‘你误会啦。我确实去看过几次利赖特小姐；但是决没有你所说的那种动机。我的目的是纯粹胃口方面的。’ “我伸手去摸熗。 “‘哪个浑蛋，’我说，‘胆敢无耻——’ “‘慢着，’这个伯行赶紧说，‘让我解释一下。我娶了老婆该生怎么办呢？你只要见过我的牧场就明白了！我自己做饭，自己补衣服。我牧羊的唯一乐趣就是吃。贾德森先生，你可尝过利赖特小姐做的薄饼？’ “‘我？这倒没有。’我对他说。‘我从没有听说，她在烹调方面还有几手。’ “‘那些薄饼简直像是金黄色的阳光，’他说，‘是用伊壁鸠鲁天厨神火烤出来的黄澄澄、甜蜜蜜的好东西。我如果搞到那种薄饼的配方，即使少活两年也心甘情愿。我去看利赖特小姐就是为这个原因，’杰克逊·伯德说，‘可是直到现在还搞不到。那个老配方在他们家里传了七十五年。他们世代相传，从不透露给外人。假如我能搞到那个配方，在牧场上自己做薄饼吃，那我就幸福了。’伯德说。 [伊壁鸠鲁（前342--前270）：古希腊哲学家。] “‘你敢担保，’我对他说，‘你追求的不是调制薄饼的手吗？’ “‘当然。’杰克逊说。‘利赖特小姐是个极好的姑娘，但是我可以向你保证，我的目的只限于胃口——’他见到我的手又去摸熗套，立即改口——‘只限于设法弄一张调制配方。’他结束说。 “‘你这小子还不算顶坏。’我装得很大方地说。‘我本来打算让你的羊儿再也见不到爹娘，这次姑且放你飞掉。但是你最多守住薄饼，千万别出格，并且别把感情错当糖浆，否则你再也听不到你牧场里的歌声了。’ “‘为了让你相信我的诚意，’牧羊人说，‘我还要请你帮个忙。利赖特小姐和你是好朋友，她不愿意替我做的事，也许愿意替你做。假如你能代我搞到那个配方，我向你担保，我以后再也不去找她了。’ “‘那倒也合情合理。’我说罢同杰克逊·伯德握握手。‘只要办得到，我一定替你去搞来，我乐于替你效劳。’于是，他掉头走下皮德拉的大梨树平地，往陷骡山谷去了；我策马朝西北方向回到老比尔·图米的牧场。 “五天之后，我才有机会去比绵塔。威莱拉小姐和我在埃姆斯利大叔家过了一个愉快的傍晚。她唱了几支歌，砰砰嘭嘭地在钢琴上弹了许多歌剧的调子。我学响尾蛇的模样，告诉她‘长虫’麦克菲剥牛皮的新法子，还告诉她有一次我去圣路易斯的情况。我们两个处得很投机。我想，如果现在能叫杰克逊·伯德转移牧场，我就赢了。我记起他说搞到薄饼调制配方就离开的保证，便打算劝威莱拉小姐交出来给他；以后我再在陷骡山谷以外的地方见到他，就要他的命。 “因此，十点钟左右，我脸上堆着哄人的笑容，对威莱拉小姐说：‘如果现在有什么东西比青草地上的红马更叫我高兴的话，那就是涂着糖浆的好吃的薄饼了。’ “威莱拉小姐在钢琴凳上微微一震，吃惊地瞅着我。 “‘是啊，’她说，‘薄饼的味道确实不错。奥多姆先生，刚才你说你在圣路易斯掉帽子的那条街叫什么来着？’ “‘薄饼街。’我眨眨眼睛说，表示我拿定主意要搞到她的家传秘方，不会轻易给岔开去的。‘喂，威莱拉小姐，’我说，‘谈谈你怎么做薄饼的吧。薄饼象车轮似地在我脑袋里打转。说吧——一磅面粉，八打鸡蛋，等等。配料的成分是怎么样的？’ “‘对不起，我出去一会儿。’威莱拉小姐说。她斜着眼睛飞快地瞟我一下，溜下凳子，慢慢地退到隔壁的房里去。紧接着，埃姆斯利大叔拿了一罐水，连上衣也没穿就进来了。他转过身去拿桌子上的玻璃杯时，我发现他裤袋里揣着一把四五口径的手熗。‘好家伙！’我想道，‘这个人家把食谱配方看得这么重，竟然要用火器来保护它。有的人家即使有世仇宿怨也不至于这样。’ “‘喝下去。’埃姆斯利递给我一杯水说。‘你今天骑马赶路累了，贾德，搞得太兴奋了。还是想些别的事情吧。’ “‘你知道怎么做那种薄饼吗，埃姆斯利大叔？’我问道。 “‘嗯，在做薄饼方面，我不象某些人那样高明，’埃姆斯利大叔回答说，‘不过我想，你可以按照通常的办法，拿一筛子石膏粉，一小点儿生面，小苏打和玉米面，用鸡蛋和全脂牛奶搅和起来就成了。今年春天老比尔是不是又要把牛群赶到堪萨斯城去，贾德？’ “那晚上，我所能打听到的有关薄饼的细节只有这么些。难怪杰克逊·伯德觉得棘手。于是我撇开这个话题不谈，和埃姆斯利大叔聊聊羊角风和旋风之类的事。没多久，威莱拉小姐进来道了晚安，我便骑马回牧场。 “约莫一个星期后，我骑马去比绵塔，正遇到杰克逊·伯德从那里回来，我们便停在路上，随便聊聊。 “‘你搞到薄饼的详细说明了吗？’我问他。 “‘没有哪。’杰克逊说，‘看样子，我没有希望了。你试过没有？’ “‘试过，’我说，‘可是毫无结果，正象要用花生壳把草原犬鼠从洞里挖出来一样。看他们死抱住不放的样子，那个薄饼配方准是好宝贝。’ “‘我几乎准备放弃啦，’杰克逊说，他的口气是那么失望，连我也替他难过；‘可是我一心只想知道那种薄饼的调制方法，以便在我那寂寞的牧场上自己做来吃。’他说，‘我晚上睡不着觉，光捉摸薄饼的好滋味。’ “‘你还是尽力想想办法，’我对他说，‘我也同时进行。用不了多久，我们中间总有一个能用套索把它兜住的。好吧，再见，杰克逊。’ “你瞧，这会儿我们已经水乳交融，相得无间了。当我发现那个沙黄头发的牧羊人并不在追求威莱拉小姐时，我对他也就比较宽容了。为了帮助他达到满足口腹之欲的雄心，我一直在想办法把威莱拉小姐的配方弄到手。但是第当我提起‘薄饼’时，她眼睛里流露出疏远和不安的神色，并且设法岔开话题。假如我坚持下去的话，她就溜出去，换了手里拿着水壶，裤袋里揣着山炮的埃姆斯利大叔进来。 “一天，我在毒狗草原的野花丛中摘了一束美丽的蓝马鞭草，驰马来到那家铺子。埃姆斯利大叔眯起一只眼睛，看着马鞭草说： “‘你没听到那个消息吗？’ “‘牛价上涨了吗？’我问道。 “‘威莱拉和杰克逊·伯德昨天在巴勒斯坦结婚啦。’他说。‘今天早晨刚收到信。’ “我把那束马鞭草扔进饼干桶，让那个消息慢慢灌进我耳朵，流到左边衬衫口袋，再流到脚底。 [左边衬衫口袋：指心] “‘请你再说一遍好不好，埃姆斯利大叔？’我说，‘也许我的耳朵出了毛病，你刚才说的只是活的甲级小母牛每头四块八毛钱，或者别的类似的话。’ “‘昨天结的婚，’埃姆斯利大叔说，‘到韦科和尼亚加拉大瀑布去度蜜月了。怎么，难道你一直没有看出苗头吗？杰克逊·伯德带威莱拉出去骑马那天，就开始追求她了。’ “‘那么，’我几乎嚷了起来，‘他对我讲的有关薄饼的那套话，究竟是什么意思？你倒说说看。’ “我一提起薄饼，埃姆斯利大叔即闪开，后退了几步。 “‘有人用薄饼来欺骗我，’我说，‘我要弄弄清楚。我相信你是知道的。讲出来，’我说，‘不然我跟你没完。’ “我翻过柜台去抓埃姆斯利大叔。他去抓熗，可是熗在抽屉里，差两英寸没够着。我揪住他的前襟，把他推到角落里。 “‘说说薄饼的事，’我说，‘不然我就把你挤成薄饼。威莱拉小姐会不会做薄饼？’ “‘她一辈子没有做过一张薄饼，我也没有见她做过。’埃姆斯利大叔安慰我说，‘安静一些，贾德——安静一些。你太激动啦，你头上的老伤使你神志不清。别去想薄饼。’ “‘埃姆斯利大叔，’我说，‘我的头没有受过伤，最多只是天生的思考本能不太高明。杰克逊·伯德对我说，他来看威莱拉小姐的目的是为了打听她做薄饼的法子，他还请我帮他弄一份配料的清单。我照办了，结果你也看到了。我是被一个粉红眼睛的牧羊人用约翰逊青草给蒙住了，还是怎么的？’ “‘你先放松我的衬衫，’埃姆斯利大叔说，‘我再告诉你。哎，看情形杰克逊·伯德把你骗了一下，自己跑了。他同威莱拉小姐出去骑马的第二天，又来通知我和威莱拉，赶上你提起薄饼的时候，就要加意提防。他说，有一次你们营地里在烙薄饼，有个人用平底锅砸破了你的头。杰克逊说，你一激动或紧张，老伤就要复发，使你有点儿疯癫，胡言乱语念叨着薄饼。他告诉我们，只要把你从这个话题上岔开，让你安静下来，就没有危险。因此我和威莱拉尽我们的力量帮助了你。哎，哎，’埃姆斯利大叔说，‘象杰克逊·伯德这样的牧羊人倒是少见的。’” 贾德讲故事的时候，已经不慌不忙、十分熟练地把那些口袋和铁皮罐里的东西调和起来。快讲完时，他把完成的产品端到我面前——两张搁在铁皮碟子上的、滚烫的、深黄色的薄饼。他又从某些秘密的贮藏处取出一块上好的黄油和一瓶金黄色的糖浆。 “这是多久以前的事啦？”我问他说。 “有三年了。”贾德答道，“如今他们住在陷骡山谷。可是我以后一直没有见过他们。有人说，当杰克逊·伯德用薄饼计把我骗得走投无路的时候，他一直在布置他的牧场，摇椅啦，窗帘啦，摆设得漂漂亮亮。喔，过一阵子，我就把这件事抛开了，可是弟兄们还闹个不休。” “这些薄饼，你是不是按照那个著名的配方做的呢？”我问道。 “我不是早就说过，配方是根本不存在的吗？”贾德说，“弟兄们老是拿薄饼来取笑我，后来搞得想吃薄饼了，于是我从报上剪下了这个调制方法。这玩意儿的味道怎么样？” “好吃得很。”我回答说，“你自己干嘛不吃一点，贾德？”我清晰地听到一声叹息。 “我吗？”贾德说，“我一向不吃薄饼。”

Hygeia at the Solito索利托牧场的卫生学 If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you will recall to mind an event in the early 'nineties when, for a minute and sundry odd seconds, a champion and a "would-be" faced each other on the alien side of an international river. So brief a conflict had rarely imposed upon the fair promise of true sport. The reporters made what they could of it, but, divested of padding, the action was sadly fugacious. The champion merely smote his victim, turned his back upon him, remarking, "I know what I done to dat stiff," and extended an arm like a ship's mast for his glove to be removed. Which accounts for a trainload of extremely disgusted gentlemen in an uproar of fancy vests and neck-wear being spilled from their pullmans in San Antonio in the early morning following the fight. Which also partly accounts for the unhappy predicament in which "Cricket" McGuire found himself as he tumbled from his car and sat upon the depot platform, torn by a spasm of that hollow, racking cough so familiar to San Antonian ears. At that time, in the uncertain light of dawn, that way passed Curtis Raidler, the Nueces County cattleman--may his shadow never measure under six foot two. The cattleman, out this early to catch the south-bound for his ranch station, stopped at the side of the distressed patron of sport, and spoke in the kindly drawl of his ilk and region, "Got it pretty bad, bud?" "Cricket" McGuire, ex-feather-weight prizefighter, tout, jockey, follower of the "ponies," all-round sport, and manipulator of the gum balls and walnut shells, looked up pugnaciously at the imputation cast by "bud." "G'wan," he rasped, "telegraph pole. I didn't ring for yer." Another paroxysm wrung him, and he leaned limply against a convenient baggage truck. Raidler waited patiently, glancing around at the white hats, short overcoats, and big cigars thronging the platform. "You're from the No'th, ain't you, bud?" he asked when the other was partially recovered. "Come down to see the fight?" "Fight!" snapped McGuire. "Puss-in-the-corner! 'Twas a hypodermic injection. Handed him just one like a squirt of dope, and he's asleep, and no tanbark needed in front of his residence. Fight!" He rattled a bit, coughed, and went on, hardly addressing the cattleman, but rather for the relief of voicing his troubles. "No more dead sure t'ings for me. But Rus Sage himself would have snatched at it. Five to one dat de boy from Cork wouldn't stay t'ree rounds is what I invested in. Put my last cent on, and could already smell the sawdust in dat all-night joint of Jimmy Delaney's on T'irty-seventh Street I was goin' to buy. And den--say, telegraph pole, what a gazaboo a guy is to put his whole roll on one turn of the gaboozlum!" "You're plenty right," said the big cattleman; "more 'specially when you lose. Son, you get up and light out for a hotel. You got a mighty bad cough. Had it long?" "Lungs," said McGuire comprehensively. "I got it. The croaker says I'll come to time for six months longer--maybe a year if I hold my gait. I wanted to settle down and take care of myself. Dat's why I speculated on dat five to one perhaps. I had a t'ousand iron dollars saved up. If I winned I was goin' to buy Delaney's cafe. Who'd a t'ought dat stiff would take a nap in de foist round--say?" "It's a hard deal," commented Raidler, looking down at the diminutive form of McGuire crumpled against the truck. "But you go to a hotel and rest. There's the Menger and the Maverick, and--" "And the Fi'th Av'noo, and the Waldorf-Astoria," mimicked McGuire. "Told you I went broke. I'm on de bum proper. I've got one dime left. Maybe a trip to Europe or a sail in me private yacht would fix me up-- pa-per!" He flung his dime at a newsboy, got his Express, propped his back against the truck, and was at once rapt in the account of his Waterloo, as expanded by the ingenious press. Curtis Raidler interrogated an enormous gold watch, and laid his hand on McGuire's shoulder. "Come on, bud," he said. "We got three minutes to catch the train." Sarcasm seemed to be McGuire's vein. "You ain't seen me cash in any chips or call a turn since I told you I was broke, a minute ago, have you? Friend, chase yourself away." "You're going down to my ranch," said the cattleman, "and stay till you get well. Six months'll fix you good as new." He lifted McGuire with one hand, and half-dragged him in the direction of the train. "What about the money?" said McGuire, struggling weakly to escape. "Money for what?" asked Raidler, puzzled. They eyed each other, not understanding, for they touched only as at the gear of bevelled cog- wheels--at right angles, and moving upon different axes. Passengers on the south-bound saw them seated together, and wondered at the conflux of two such antipodes. McGuire was five feet one, with a countenance belonging to either Yokohama or Dublin. Bright-beady of eye, bony of cheek and jaw, scarred, toughened, broken and reknit, indestructible, grisly, gladiatorial as a hornet, he was a type neither new nor unfamiliar. Raidler was the product of a different soil. Six feet two in height, miles broad, and no deeper than a crystal brook, he represented the union of the West and South. Few accurate pictures of his kind have been made, for art galleries are so small and the mutoscope is as yet unknown in Texas. After all, the only possible medium of portrayal of Raidler's kind would be the fresco--something high and simple and cool and unframed. They were rolling southward on the International. The timber was huddling into little, dense green motts at rare distances before the inundation of the downright, vert prairies. This was the land of the ranches; the domain of the kings of the kine. McGuire sat, collapsed into his corner of the seat, receiving with acid suspicion the conversation of the cattleman. What was the "game" of this big "geezer" who was carrying him off? Altruism would have been McGuire's last guess. "He ain't no farmer," thought the captive, "and he ain't no con man, for sure. W'at's his lay? You trail in, Cricket, and see how many cards he draws. You're up against it, anyhow. You got a nickel and gallopin' consumption, and you better lay low. Lay low and see w'at's his game." At Rincon, a hundred miles from San Antonio, they left the train for a buckboard which was waiting there for Raidler. In this they travelled the thirty miles between the station and their destination. If anything could, this drive should have stirred the acrimonious McGuire to a sense of his ransom. They sped upon velvety wheels across an exhilarant savanna. The pair of Spanish ponies struck a nimble, tireless trot, which gait they occasionally relieved by a wild, untrammelled gallop. The air was wine and seltzer, perfumed, as they absorbed it, with the delicate redolence of prairie flowers. The road perished, and the buckboard swam the uncharted billows of the grass itself, steered by the practised hand of Raidler, to whom each tiny distant mott of trees was a signboard, each convolution of the low hills a voucher of course and distance. But McGuire reclined upon his spine, seeing nothing but a desert, and receiving the cattleman's advances with sullen distrust. "W'at's he up to?" was the burden of his thoughts; "w'at kind of a gold brick has the big guy got to sell?" McGuire was only applying the measure of the streets he had walked to a range bounded by the horizon and the fourth dimension. A week before, while riding the prairies, Raidler had come upon a sick and weakling calf deserted and bawling. Without dismounting he had reached and slung the distressed bossy across his saddle, and dropped it at the ranch for the boys to attend to. It was impossible for McGuire to know or comprehend that, in the eyes of the cattleman, his case and that of the calf were identical in interest and demand upon his assistance. A creature was ill and helpless; he had the power to render aid--these were the only postulates required for the cattleman to act. They formed his system of logic and the most of his creed. McGuire was the seventh invalid whom Raidler had picked up thus casually in San Antonio, where so many thousand go for the ozone that is said to linger about its contracted streets. Five of them had been guests of Solito Ranch until they had been able to leave, cured or better, and exhausting the vocabulary of tearful gratitude. One came too late, but rested very comfortably, at last, under a ratama tree in the garden. So, then, it was no surprise to the ranchhold when the buckboard spun to the door, and Raidler took up his debile protege like a handful of rags and set him down upon the gallery. McGuire looked upon things strange to him. The ranch-house was the best in the country. It was built of brick hauled one hundred miles by wagon, but it was of but one story, and its four rooms were completely encircled by a mud floor "gallery." The miscellaneous setting of horses, dogs, saddles, wagons, guns, and cow-punchers' paraphernalia oppressed the metropolitan eyes of the wrecked sportsman. "Well, here we are at home," said Raidler, cheeringly. "It's a h--l of a looking place," said McGuire promptly, as he rolled upon the gallery floor in a fit of coughing. "We'll try to make it comfortable for you, buddy," said the cattleman gently. "It ain't fine inside; but it's the outdoors, anyway, that'll do you the most good. This'll be your room, in here. Anything we got, you ask for it." He led McGuire into the east room. The floor was bare and clean. White curtains waved in the gulf breeze through the open windows. A big willow rocker, two straight chairs, a long table covered with newspapers, pipes, tobacco, spurs, and cartridges stood in the centre. Some well-mounted heads of deer and one of an enormous black javeli projected from the walls. A wide, cool cot-bed stood in a corner. Nueces County people regarded this guest chamber as fit for a prince. McGuire showed his eyeteeth at it. He took out his nickel and spun it up to the ceiling. "T'ought I was lyin' about the money, did ye? Well, you can frisk me if you wanter. Dat's the last simoleon in the treasury. Who's goin' to pay?" The cattleman's clear grey eyes looked steadily from under his grizzly brows into the huckleberry optics of his guest. After a little he said simply, and not ungraciously, "I'll be much obliged to you, son, if you won't mention money any more. Once was quite a plenty. Folks I ask to my ranch don't have to pay anything, and they very scarcely ever offers it. Supper'll be ready in half an hour. There's water in the pitcher, and some, cooler, to drink, in that red jar hanging on the gallery." "Where's the bell?" asked McGuire, looking about. "Bell for what?" "Bell to ring for things. I can't--see here," he exploded in a sudden, weak fury, "I never asked you to bring me here. I never held you up for a cent. I never gave you a hard-luck story till you asked me. Here I am fifty miles from a bellboy or a cocktail. I'm sick. I can't hustle. Gee! but I'm up against it!" McGuire fell upon the cot and sobbed shiveringly. Raidler went to the door and called. A slender, bright-complexioned Mexican youth about twenty came quickly. Raidler spoke to him in Spanish. "Ylario, it is in my mind that I promised you the position of vaquero on the San Carlos range at the fall rodeo." "Si, senor, such was your goodness." "Listen. This senorito is my friend. He is very sick. Place yourself at his side. Attend to his wants at all times. Have much patience and care with him. And when he is well, or--and when he is well, instead of vaquero I will make you mayordomo of the Rancho de las Piedras. Esta bueno?" "Si, si--mil gracias, senor." Ylario tried to kneel upon the floor in his gratitude, but the cattleman kicked at him benevolently, growling, "None of your opery-house antics, now." Ten minutes later Ylario came from McGuire's room and stood before Raidler. "The little senor," he announced, "presents his compliments" (Raidler credited Ylario with the preliminary) "and desires some pounded ice, one hot bath, one gin feez-z, that the windows be all closed, toast, one shave, one Newyorkheral', cigarettes, and to send one telegram." Raidler took a quart bottle of whisky from his medicine cabinet. "Here, take him this," he said. Thus was instituted the reign of terror at the Solito Ranch. For a few weeks McGuire blustered and boasted and swaggered before the cow- punchers who rode in for miles around to see this latest importation of Raidler's. He was an absolutely new experience to them. He explained to them all the intricate points of sparring and the tricks of training and defence. He opened to their minds' view all the indecorous life of a tagger after professional sports. His jargon of slang was a continuous joy and surprise to them. His gestures, his strange poses, his frank ribaldry of tongue and principle fascinated them. He was like a being from a new world. Strange to say, this new world he had entered did not exist to him. He was an utter egoist of bricks and mortar. He had dropped out, he felt, into open space for a time, and all it contained was an audience for his reminiscences. Neither the limitless freedom of the prairie days nor the grand hush of the close-drawn, spangled nights touched him. All the hues of Aurora could not win him from the pink pages of a sporting journal. "Get something for nothing," was his mission in life; "Thirty-seventh" Street was his goal. Nearly two months after his arrival he began to complain that he felt worse. It was then that he became the ranch's incubus, its harpy, its Old Man of the Sea. He shut himself in his room like some venomous kobold or flibbertigibbet, whining, complaining, cursing, accusing. The keynote of his plaint was that he had been inveigled into a gehenna against his will; that he was dying of neglect and lack of comforts. With all his dire protestations of increasing illness, to the eye of others he remained unchanged. His currant-like eyes were as bright and diabolic as ever; his voice was as rasping; his callous face, with the skin drawn tense as a drum-head, had no flesh to lose. A flush on his prominent cheek bones each afternoon hinted that a clinical thermometer might have revealed a symptom, and percussion might have established the fact that McGuire was breathing with only one lung, but his appearance remained the same. In constant attendance upon him was Ylario, whom the coming reward of the mayordomoship must have greatly stimulated, for McGuire chained him to a bitter existence. The air--the man's only chance for life--he commanded to be kept out by closed windows and drawn curtains. The room was always blue and foul with cigarette smoke; whosoever entered it must sit, suffocating, and listen to the imp's interminable gasconade concerning his scandalous career. The oddest thing of all was the relation existing between McGuire and his benefactor. The attitude of the invalid toward the cattleman was something like that of a peevish, perverse child toward an indulgent parent. When Raidler would leave the ranch McGuire would fall into a fit of malevolent, silent sullenness. When he returned, he would be met by a string of violent and stinging reproaches. Raidler's attitude toward his charge was quite inexplicable in its way. The cattleman seemed actually to assume and feel the character assigned to him by McGuire's intemperate accusations--the character of tyrant and guilty oppressor. He seemed to have adopted the responsibility of the fellow's condition, and he always met his tirades with a pacific, patient, and even remorseful kindness that never altered. One day Raidler said to him, "Try more air, son. You can have the buckboard and a driver every day if you'll go. Try a week or two in one of the cow camps. I'll fix you up plumb comfortable. The ground, and the air next to it--them's the things to cure you. I knowed a man from Philadelphy, sicker than you are, got lost on the Guadalupe, and slept on the bare grass in sheep camps for two weeks. Well, sir, it started him getting well, which he done. Close to the ground--that's where the medicine in the air stays. Try a little hossback riding now. There's a gentle pony--" "What've I done to yer?" screamed McGuire. "Did I ever doublecross yer? Did I ask you to bring me here? Drive me out to your camps if you wanter; or stick a knife in me and save trouble. Ride! I can't lift my feet. I couldn't sidestep a jab from a five-year-old kid. That's what your d--d ranch has done for me. There's nothing to eat, nothing to see, and nobody to talk to but a lot of Reubens who don't know a punching bag from a lobster salad." "It's a lonesome place, for certain," apologised Raidler abashedly. "We got plenty, but it's rough enough. Anything you think of you want, the boys'll ride up and fetch it down for you." It was Chad Murchison, a cow-puncher from the Circle Bar outfit, who first suggested that McGuire's illness was fraudulent. Chad had brought a basket of grapes for him thirty miles, and four out of his way, tied to his saddle-horn. After remaining in the smoke-tainted room for a while, he emerged and bluntly confided his suspicions to Raidler. "His arm," said Chad, "is harder'n a diamond. He interduced me to what he called a shore-perplexus punch, and 'twas like being kicked twice by a mustang. He's playin' it low down on you, Curt. He ain't no sicker'n I am. I hate to say it, but the runt's workin' you for range and shelter." The cattleman's ingenuous mind refused to entertain Chad's view of the case, and when, later, he came to apply the test, doubt entered not into his motives. One day, about noon, two men drove up to the ranch, alighted, hitched, and came in to dinner; standing and general invitations being the custom of the country. One of them was a great San Antonio doctor, whose costly services had been engaged by a wealthy cowman who had been laid low by an accidental bullet. He was now being driven back to the station to take the train back to town. After dinner Raidler took him aside, pushed a twenty-dollar bill against his hand, and said: "Doc, there's a young chap in that room I guess has got a bad case of consumption. I'd like for you to look him over and see just how bad he is, and if we can do anything for him." "How much was that dinner I just ate, Mr. Raidler?" said the doctor bluffly, looking over his spectacles. Raidler returned the money to his pocket. The doctor immediately entered McGuire's room, and the cattleman seated himself upon a heap of saddles on the gallery, ready to reproach himself in the event the verdict should be unfavourable. In ten minutes the doctor came briskly out. "Your man," he said promptly, "is as sound as a new dollar. His lungs are better than mine. Respiration, temperature, and pulse normal. Chest expansion four inches. Not a sign of weakness anywhere. Of course I didn't examine for the bacillus, but it isn't there. You can put my name to the diagnosis. Even cigarettes and a vilely close room haven't hurt him. Coughs, does he? Well, you tell him it isn't necessary. You asked if there is anything we could do for him. Well, I advise you to set him digging post-holes or breaking mustangs. There's our team ready. Good- day, sir." And like a puff of wholesome, blustery wind the doctor was off. Raidler reached out and plucked a leaf from a mesquite bush by the railing, and began chewing it thoughtfully. The branding season was at hand, and the next morning Ross Hargis, foreman of the outfit, was mustering his force of some twenty-five men at the ranch, ready to start for the San Carlos range, where the work was to begin. By six o'clock the horses were all saddled, the grub wagon ready, and the cow-punchers were swinging themselves upon their mounts, when Raidler bade them wait. A boy was bringing up an extra pony, bridled and saddled, to the gate. Raidler walked to McGuire's room and threw open the door. McGuire was lying on his cot, not yet dressed, smoking. "Get up," said the cattleman, and his voice was clear and brassy, like a bugle. "How's that?" asked McGuire, a little startled. "Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar. Do I have to tell you again?" He caught McGuire by the neck and stood him on the floor. "Say, friend," cried McGuire wildly, "are you bug-house? I'm sick-- see? I'll croak if I got to hustle. What've I done to yer?"--he began his chronic whine--"I never asked yer to--" "Put on your clothes," called Raidler in a rising tone. Swearing, stumbling, shivering, keeping his amazed, shining eyes upon the now menacing form of the aroused cattleman, McGuire managed to tumble into his clothes. Then Raidler took him by the collar and shoved him out and across the yard to the extra pony hitched at the gate. The cow-punchers lolled in their saddles, open-mouthed. "Take this man," said Raidler to Ross Hargis, "and put him to work. Make him work hard, sleep hard, and eat hard. You boys know I done what I could for him, and he was welcome. Yesterday the best doctor in San Antone examined him, and says he's got the lungs of a burro and the constitution of a steer. You know what to do with him, Ross." Ross Hargis only smiled grimly. "Aw," said McGuire, looking intently at Raidler, with a peculiar expression upon his face, "the croaker said I was all right, did he? Said I was fakin', did he? You put him onto me. You t'ought I wasn't sick. You said I was a liar. Say, friend, I talked rough, I know, but I didn't mean most of it. If you felt like I did--aw! I forgot--I ain't sick, the croaker says. Well, friend, now I'll go work for yer. Here's where you play even." He sprang into the saddle easily as a bird, got the quirt from the horn, and gave his pony a slash with it. "Cricket," who once brought in Good Boy by a neck at Hawthorne--and a 10 to 1 shot--had his foot in the stirrups again. McGuire led the cavalcade as they dashed away for San Carlos, and the cow-punchers gave a yell of applause as they closed in behind his dust. But in less than a mile he had lagged to the rear, and was last man when they struck the patch of high chaparral below the horse pens. Behind a clump of this he drew rein, and held a handkerchief to his mouth. He took it away drenched with bright, arterial blood, and threw it carefully into a clump of prickly pear. Then he slashed with his quirt again, gasped "G'wan" to his astonished pony, and galloped after the gang. That night Raidler received a message from his old home in Alabama. There had been a death in the family; an estate was to divide, and they called for him to come. Daylight found him in the buckboard, skimming the prairies for the station. It was two months before he returned. When he arrived at the ranch house he found it well-nigh deserted save for Ylario, who acted as a kind of steward during his absence. Little by little the youth made him acquainted with the work done while he was away. The branding camp, he was informed, was still doing business. On account of many severe storms the cattle had been badly scattered, and the branding had been accomplished but slowly. The camp was now in the valley of the Guadalupe, twenty miles away. "By the way," said Raidler, suddenly remembering, "that fellow I sent along with them--McGuire--is he working yet?" "I do not know," said Ylario. "Mans from the camp come verree few times to the ranch. So plentee work with the leetle calves. They no say. Oh, I think that fellow McGuire he dead much time ago." "Dead!" said Raidler. "What you talking about?" "Verree sick fellow, McGuire," replied Ylario, with a shrug of his shoulder. "I theenk he no live one, two month when he go away." "Shucks!" said Raidler. "He humbugged you, too, did he? The doctor examined him and said he was sound as a mesquite knot." "That doctor," said Ylario, smiling, "he tell you so? That doctor no see McGuire." "Talk up," ordered Raidler. "What the devil do you mean?" "McGuire," continued the boy tranquilly, "he getting drink water outside when that doctor come in room. That doctor take me and pound me all over here with his fingers"--putting his hand to his chest--"I not know for what. He put his ear here and here and here, and listen-- I not know for what. He put little glass stick in my mouth. He feel my arm here. He make me count like whisper--so--twenty, treinta, cuarenta. Who knows," concluded Ylario, with a deprecating spread of his hands, "for what that doctor do those verree droll and such-like things?" "What horses are up?" asked Raidler shortly. "Paisano is grazing out behind the little corral, senor." "Saddle him for me at once." Within a very few minutes the cattleman was mounted and away. Paisano, well named after that ungainly but swift-running bird, struck into his long lope that ate up the ground like a strip of macaroni. In two hours and a quarter Raidler, from a gentle swell, saw the branding camp by a water hole in the Guadalupe. Sick with expectancy of the news he feared, he rode up, dismounted, and dropped Paisano's reins. So gentle was his heart that at that moment he would have pleaded guilty to the murder of McGuire. The only being in the camp was the cook, who was just arranging the hunks of barbecued beef, and distributing the tin coffee cups for supper. Raidler evaded a direct question concerning the one subject in his mind. "Everything all right in camp, Pete?" he managed to inquire. "So, so," said Pete, conservatively. "Grub give out twice. Wind scattered the cattle, and we've had to rake the brush for forty mile. I need a new coffee-pot. And the mosquitos is some more hellish than common." "The boys--all well?" Pete was no optimist. Besides, inquiries concerning the health of cow- punchers were not only superfluous, but bordered on flaccidity. It was not like the boss to make them. "What's left of 'em don't miss no calls to grub," the cook conceded. "What's left of 'em?" repeated Raidler in a husky voice. Mechanically he began to look around for McGuire's grave. He had in his mind a white slab such as he had seen in the Alabama church-yard. But immediately he knew that was foolish. "Sure," said Pete; "what's left. Cow camps change in two months. Some's gone." Raidler nerved himself. "That--chap--I sent along--McGuire--did--he--" "Say," interrupted Pete, rising with a chunk of corn bread in each hand, "that was a dirty shame, sending that poor, sick kid to a cow camp. A doctor that couldn't tell he was graveyard meat ought to be skinned with a cinch buckle. Game as he was, too--it's a scandal among snakes--lemme tell you what he done. First night in camp the boys started to initiate him in the leather breeches degree. Ross Hargis busted him one swipe with his chaparreras, and what do you reckon the poor child did? Got up, the little skeeter, and licked Ross. Licked Ross Hargis. Licked him good. Hit him plenty and everywhere and hard. Ross'd just get up and pick out a fresh place to lay down on agin. "Then that McGuire goes off there and lays down with his head in the grass and bleeds. A hem'ridge they calls it. He lays there eighteen hours by the watch, and they can't budge him. Then Ross Hargis, who loves any man who can lick him, goes to work and damns the doctors from Greenland to Poland Chiny; and him and Green Branch Johnson they gets McGuire into a tent, and spells each other feedin' him chopped raw meat and whisky. "But it looks like the kid ain't got no appetite to git well, for they misses him from the tent in the night and finds him rootin' in the grass, and likewise a drizzle fallin'. 'G'wan,' he says, 'lemme go and die like I wanter. He said I was a liar and a fake and I was playin' sick. Lemme alone.' "Two weeks," went on the cook, "he laid around, not noticin' nobody, and then--" A sudden thunder filled the air, and a score of galloping centaurs crashed through the brush into camp. "Illustrious rattlesnakes!" exclaimed Pete, springing all ways at once; "here's the boys come, and I'm an assassinated man if supper ain't ready in three minutes." But Raidler saw only one thing. A little, brown-faced, grinning chap, springing from his saddle in the full light of the fire. McGuire was not like that, and yet-- In another instant the cattleman was holding him by the hand and shoulder. "Son, son, how goes it?" was all he found to say. "Close to the ground, says you," shouted McGuire, crunching Raidler's fingers in a grip of steel; "and dat's where I found it--healt' and strengt', and tumbled to what a cheap skate I been actin'. T'anks fer kickin' me out, old man. And--say! de joke's on dat croaker, ain't it? I looked t'rough the window and see him playin' tag on dat Dago kid's solar plexus." "You son of a tinker," growled the cattleman, "whyn't you talk up and say the doctor never examined you?" "Ah--g'wan!" said McGuire, with a flash of his old asperity, "nobody can't bluff me. You never ast me. You made your spiel, and you t'rowed me out, and I let it go at dat. And, say, friend, dis chasin' cows is outer sight. Dis is de whitest bunch of sports I ever travelled with. You'll let me stay, won't yer, old man?" Raidler looked wonderingly toward Ross Hargis. "That cussed little runt," remarked Ross tenderly, "is the Jo-dartin'est hustler--and the hardest hitter in anybody's cow camp." 假如你很熟悉拳击界的纪录，你大概记得九十年代初期有过这么一件事：在一条国境河流的彼岸，一个拳击冠军同一个想当冠军的选手对峙了短短的一分零几秒钟。观众指望多少看到一点货真价实的玩意儿，万万没料到这次交锋竟然这么短暂。新闻记者们卖足力气，可是巧妇难为无米之炊，他们报道的消息仍旧干巴得可怜。冠军轻易地击倒了对手，回过身说：“我知道我一拳已经够那家伙受用了。”接着便把胳臂伸得像船桅似的，让助手替他脱掉手套。 由于这件事，第二天一清早，一列车穿着花哨的坎肩，打着漂亮的领结，大为扫兴的先生们从普尔门卧车下到圣安东尼奥车站。也由于这件事，“蟋蟀”麦圭尔跌跌撞撞赍车厢里出来，坐在车站月台上，发作了一阵圣安东尼奥人非常耳熟的剧烈干咳。那当儿，在熹微的晨光中，纽西斯郡的牧场主，身高六英尺二英寸的柯蒂斯·雷德勒碰巧走过。 牧场主这么早出来，是赶南行的火车回牧场去的。他在这个倒霉的拳击迷身边站停，用拖长的本地口音和善地问道：“病得很厉害吗，老弟？” “蟋蟀”麦圭尔听到“老弟”这个不客气的称呼，立刻寻畔似地抬起了眼睛。他以前是次轻级的拳击家，又是马赛预测人，骑师，赛马场的常客，全能的赌徒和各种骗局的行家。 “你走人的路吧，”他嘶哑地说，“电线杆。我没有吩咐你来。” 他又剧烈地咳了一阵，软弱无力地往近便的一只衣箱上一靠。雷德勒耐心地等着，打量着月台上周围那些白礼帽、短大衣和粗雪茄。“你是从北方来的，是吗，老弟？”等对方缓过气来时，他问道，“是来看拳赛的吗？” “拳赛！”麦圭尔冒着火说，“只能算是抢壁角游戏！简直象是一针皮下注射。他挨了一拳，就象是打了一针麻醉药似的，躺在地下不醒了，门口连墓碑都不用竖。这算是哪门子拳击！”他喉咙里咯咯响了一阵，咳了几声，又往下说；他的话不一定是对牧场主而发，只是把心头的烦恼讲出来，觉得轻松一点罢了。“其实我对这件事是完全有把握的。换了拉塞·塞奇也会抓住这么个机会。我认定那个从科克来的家伙能支持三个回合。我以五对一的赌注打赌，把所有的钱都押上去了。我本来打算把第三十七号街上杰米·德莱尼的那家通宵咖啡馆买下来，以为准能到手，几乎闻到充填酒瓶箱的锯木屑的气味了。可是——喂，电线杆，一个人把他所有的钱一次下注是多么傻呀！” [拉塞·塞奇指拉塞尔·塞奇（1816—1906）：美国金融家，股票大王。] “说得对，”大个子牧场主说，“赌输之后说的话尤其对。老弟，你还是起来去找一家旅馆吧。你咳得很厉害。病得很久了吗？” “我害的是肺病。”麦圭尔很有自知之明地说，“大夫说我还能活六个月——慢一点也许还能活一年。我要安顿下来，保养保养。那也许就是我为什么要以五比一的赌注来搏一下的缘故。我攒了一千块现钱。假如赢的话，我就把德莱尼的咖啡馆买下来。谁料到那家伙在第一个回合就打瞌睡了呢——你倒说说看？” “运气不好。”雷德勒说，同时看看麦圭尔靠在衣箱上的蜷缩消瘦的身体。“你还是去旅馆休息吧。这儿有门杰旅馆，马弗里旅馆，还有——” “还有五马路旅馆，沃尔多夫·阿斯托里亚旅馆。”麦圭尔揶揄地学着说，“我对你讲过，我已经破产啦。我现在跟叫化子差不多。我只剩下一毛钱。也许到欧洲去旅行一次，或者乘了私人游艇去航行航行，对我的身体有好处——喂，报纸！” [沃尔多夫·阿斯托里亚“纽约的豪华旅馆。] 他把那一毛钱扔给了报童，买了一份《快报》，背靠着衣箱，立即全神贯注地阅读富于创造天才的报馆所渲染的关于他的惨败的报道了。 柯蒂斯·雷德勒看了看他那硕大的金表，把手按在了麦圭尔的肩膀上。 “来以，老弟。”他说，“再过三分钟，火车就要开了。” 麦圭尔生性就喜欢挖苦人。 “一分钟之前，我对你说过我已经破产了。在这期间，你没有看见我捞进筹码，也没有发现我时来运转，是不是？朋友，你自己赶快上车吧。” “你到我的牧场去，”牧场主说，“一直呆到恢复。不出六个月，准保你换一个人。”他一把抓起麦圭尔，拖他朝火车走去。 “费用怎么办？”麦圭尔说，想挣脱可又挣脱不掉。 “什么费用？”雷德勒莫名其妙地说。他们你看着我，我看着你，可是互相并不了解，因为他们的接触只象是格格不入的斜齿轮，在不同方向的轴上转动。 南行火车上的乘客们，看见这两个截然不同的类型凑在一起，不禁暗暗纳罕。麦圭尔只有五英尺一英寸高，容貌既不象横滨人，也不象都柏林人。他的眼睛又亮又圆，面颊和下巴瘦骨棱棱，脸上满是打破后缝起来的伤痕，神气显得又可怕，又不屈不挠，象大黄蜂那样好勇斗狠。他这种类型既不新奇，也不陌生。雷德勒却是不同土壤上的产物。他身高六英尺二英寸，肩膀宽阔，但是象清澈的小溪那样，一眼就望得到底。他这种类型可以代表西部同南部的结合。能够正确地描绘他这种人的画像非常少，因为艺术馆是那么小，而得克萨斯还没有电影院。总之，要描绘雷德勒这种类型只有用壁画——用某种崇高、朴实、冷静和不配镜框的图画。 [横滨是日本商埠；都柏林是爱尔兰共和国首都。] 他们坐在国际铁路公司的火车上驶向南方。在一望无际的绿色大草原上，远处的树木汇成一簇簇青葱茂密的小丛林。这就是牧场所在的地方；是统治牛群的帝王的领土。 麦圭尔有气无力地坐在座位角落里，猜疑地同牧场主谈着话。这个大家伙把他带走，究竟是在玩什么把戏？麦圭尔怎么也不会想到利他主义上去。“他不是农人，”这个俘虏想道，“他也绝对不是骗子。他是干什么的呢？走着瞧吧，蟋蟀，看他还有些什么花招。反正你现在不名一文。你有的只是五分钱和奔马性肺结核，你还是静静等着。静等着，看他耍什么把戏。”到了离圣安东尼奥一百英里的林康，他们下了火车，乘上在那儿等候雷德勒的四轮马车。从火车站到他们的目的地还有三十英里，就是坐马车去的。如果有什么事能使麦圭尔觉得象他被绑架的话，那就是坐上这辆马车了。他们的马车轻捷地穿过一片令人赏心悦目的大草原。那对西班牙的小马轻快地、不停地小跑着，间或任性地飞跑一阵子。他们呼吸的空气中有一股草原花朵的芳香，象美酒和矿泉水那般沁人心脾。道路消失了，四轮马上在一片航海图上没有标出的青草的海洋中游弋，由老练的雷德勒掌舵；对他来说，每一簇遥远的小丛林都是一个路标，每一片起伏的小山都代表方向和里程。但是麦圭尔仰天靠着，他看到的只是一片荒里。他随着牧场主行进，心里既不高兴，也不信任。“他打算干什么？”这个想法成了他的包袱；“这个大家伙葫芦里卖的是什么药？”麦圭尔只能他熟悉的城市里的尺度来衡量这个以地平线和玄想为界限的牧场。 一星期以前，雷德勒在草原上驰骋时，发现一头被遗弃的病小牛在哞哞叫唤。他没下马就抓起那头可怜的小牛，往鞍头一搭，带回牧场，让手下人去照顾。麦圭尔不可能知道，也不可能理解，在牧场主看来，他的情况同那头小牛完全一样，都需要帮助。一个动物害了病，无依无靠；而雷德勒又有能力提供帮助——他单凭这些条件就采取了行动。这些条件组成了他的逻辑体系和行为准则。据说，圣安东尼奥狭窄的街道上弥漫着臭氧，成千害肺病的人便去那儿疗养。在雷德勒凑巧碰到并带回牧场的病人中间，麦圭尔已经是第七个了。在索利托牧场做客的五个病人，先后恢复了健康或者明显好转，感激涕零地离开了牧场。一个来得太迟了，但终于非常舒适地安息在园子里一株枝叶披覆的树下。 因此，当四轮马车飞驰到门口，雷德勒把那个虚弱的被保护人象一团破布似地提起来，放到回廊上的时候，牧场上的人并不觉得奇怪。 麦圭尔打量着陌生的环境。这个牧场的庄院是当地最好的。砌房的砖是从一百英里以外运来的。不过房子只有一层，四间屋子外面围着一道泥地的回廊。杂乱的马具、狗具、马鞍、大车、熗枝、以及牧童的装备，叫那个过惯城市生活，如今落魄的运动家看了怪不顺眼。 “好啦，我们到家啦。”雷德勒快活地说。 “这个鬼地方，”麦圭尔马上接口说，他突然一阵咳嗽，憋得他上气不接下气，在回廊的泥地上打滚。 “我们会想办法让你舒服些，老弟。”牧场主和气地说，“屋子里面并不精致；不过对你最有好处的倒是室外。里面的一间归你住。只要是我们有的东西，你尽管要好啦。” 他把麦圭尔领到东面的屋子里。地上很干净，没有地毯。打开的窗户里吹来一阵阵海湾风，拂动着白色的窗帘。屋子当中有一张柳条大摇椅，两把直背椅子，一张长桌，桌子上满是报纸、烟斗、烟草、马刺和子弹。墙壁上安着几只剥制得很好的鹿头和一个硕大的黑野猪头。屋角有一张宽阔而凉爽的帆布床。纽西斯郡的人认为这间客房给王子住都合适。麦圭尔却朝它撇撇嘴。他掏出他那五分钱的镍币，往天花板上一扔。 “你以为我说没钱是撒谎吗？你高兴的话，不妨搜我口袋。那是库房里最后一枚钱币啦。谁来付钱啊？” 牧场主那清澈的灰色眼睛，从灰色的眉毛底下坚定地瞅着他客人那黑珠子般的眼睛。歇了一会儿，他直截了当，然而并不失礼地说：“老弟，假如你不再提钱，我就很领你的情。一次已经足够啦。被我请到牧场上来的人一个钱也不用花，他们也很少提起要付钱。再过半小时就可以吃晚饭了。壶里有水，挂在回廊里的红瓦罐里的水比较凉，可以喝。” “铃在哪儿？”麦圭尔打量着周围说。 “什么铃？” “召唤佣人拿东西的铃。我不可能——喂，”他突然软弱无力地发起火来，“我根本没请你把我带来。我根本没有拦住你，向你要过一分钱。我根本没有先开口把我的不幸告诉你，你问了我才说的。现在我落到这里，离侍者和鸡尾酒有五十英里远，我有病，不能动。哟！可是我一个钱也没有！”麦圭尔扑到床上，抽抽噎噎地哭了起来。 雷德勒走到门口喊了一声。一个二十来岁，身材瘦长，面色红润的墨西哥小伙子很快就来了。雷德勒对他讲西班牙语。 “伊拉里奥，我记得我答应过你，到秋季赶牲口的进修让你去圣卡洛斯牧场当牧童。” “是的，先生，承蒙你的好意。” “听着，这位小先生是我的朋友。他病得很厉害。你待在他身边。随时伺候他。耐心照顾他。等他好了，或者——唔，等他好了，我就让你当多石牧场的总管，比牧童更强，好吗？” “那敢情好——多谢你，先生。”伊拉里奥感激得几乎要跪下去，但是牧场主善意地踹了他一脚，喝道：“别演滑稽戏啦。” 十分钟后，伊拉里奥从麦圭尔的屋子里出来，站到雷德勒面前。 “那位小先生，”他说，“向你致意，”（这是雷德勒教给伊拉里奥的规矩）“他要一些碎冰，洗个热水浴，喝掺有柠檬汽水的杜松子酒，把所有的窗户都关严，还要烤面包，修脸，一份《纽约先驱报》，香烟，再要发一个电报。” 雷德勒从药品柜里取出一夸特容量的威士忌酒瓶。“把这给他。”他说。 索利托牧场上的恐怖统治就是这样开始的。最初几个星期，各处的牧童骑着马赶了好几英里路来看雷德勒新弄来的客人；麦圭尔则在他们面前吆喝，吹牛，大摆架子。在他们眼里，他完全是个新奇的人物。他把拳斗的错综复杂的奥妙和腾挪闪躲的诀窍解释给他们听。他让他们了解到靠运动吃饭的人的不规矩的生活方式。他的切口和俚语老是引起他们发笑和诧异。他的手势，特别的姿态、赤裸裸的下流话和下流想法，把他们迷住了。他好象是从一个新世界来的人物。   说来奇怪，他所进入的这个新环境对他毫无影响。他是个彻头彻尾，顽固不化的自私的人。他觉得自己仿佛暂时退居到一个空间，这个空间里只有听他回忆往事的人。无论是草原上白天的无边自由也好，还是夜晚的星光灿烂、庄严肃穆也好，都不能触动他。曙光的色彩并不能把他的注意力从粉红色的运动报刊上转移过来。“不劳而获”是他毕生的目标；第三十七号街上的咖啡馆是他奋斗的方向。 他来了将近两个月后，便开始抱怨说，他觉得身体更糟了。从那时起，他就成了牧场上的负担，贪鬼和梦魇。他象一个恶毒的妖精或长舌妇，独自关在屋子里，整天发牢骚，抱怨，詈骂，责备。他抱怨说，他被人家不由分说地骗到了地狱里；他就要因为缺乏照顾和舒适而死了。尽管他威胁说他的病越来越重，在别人眼里，他却没有变。他那双葡萄干似的眼睛仍旧那么亮，那么可怕；他的嗓音仍旧那么刺耳；他那皮肤绷得象鼓面一般紧；起老茧的脸并没有消瘦。他那高耸的颧骨每天下午泛起两片潮红，说明一支体温计也许可以揭露某种征状。胸部叩诊也许可以证实麦圭尔只有半边的肺在呼吸，不过他的外表仍跟以前一样。 [“梦魇”的原文是“theOldManoftheSea”，典出《天方夜谭》故事中骑在水手辛巴德肩上不肯下来，老是驱使辛巴德涉水的海边老人。] 经常伺候他的是伊拉里奥。指日可待的总管职位的许诺肯定给了他极大的激励，因为服侍麦圭尔的差使简直是活受罪。麦圭尔吩咐关上窗子，拉下窗帘，不让他唯一的救星新鲜空气进来。屋子里整天弥漫着污浊的蓝色的烟雾；谁走进这间叫人透不过气来的屋子，谁就得会着听那小妖精无休无止地吹嘘他那不光彩的经历。 最叫人纳闷的是麦圭尔同他恩人之间的关系。这个病人对牧场主的态度，正如一个倔强乖张的小孩儿对待溺爱的父母。雷德勒离开牧场的时候，麦圭尔就不怀好意地闷声不响，发着脾气。雷德勒一回来，麦圭尔就激烈地、刻毒地把他骂得狗血喷头。雷德勒对他客人的态度也相当费解。牧场主仿佛真的承认并且觉得自己正是麦圭尔所猛烈攻击的人物——专制暴君和万恶的压迫者。他仿佛认为那家伙的情况应该由他负责，不管对方怎样谩骂，他总是心平气和，甚至觉得抱歉。 一天，雷德勒对他说：“你不妨多呼吸些新鲜空气，老弟。假如你愿意到外面跑跑，每天都可以用我的马车，我还可以派一个车夫供你使唤。到一个营地里去试一两个星期。我准替你安排得舒舒服服。土地和外面的空气——这些东西才能治好你的病。我知道有一个费城的人，比你病得凶，在瓜达卢佩迷了路，随着牧羊营里的人在草地上睡了两个星期。哎，先生，这使他的病情有了好转，后来果然完全恢复。接近土地——那里有自然界的医药。从现在开始不妨骑骑马。有一匹驯顺的小马——” “我什么地方跟你过不去？”麦圭尔嚷道，“我几时坑害过你？我有没有求你带我上这儿来？你高兴的话，把我赶到你的营地里去好啦；或者一刀把我捅死，省却麻烦。叫我骑马！我连抬腿的力气都没有呢。即使一个五岁的娃娃来揍我，我也没法招架。全是你这该死的牧场害我的。这里没有吃的，没有看的，没有可以交谈的人，有的只是一批连练拳的沙袋和龙虾肉色拉都分不清的乡巴佬。” “不错，这个地方很荒凉。”雷德勒不好意思地道歉说，“我们这儿很丰饶，但是很简朴。你想要什么，弟兄们可以骑马到外面去替你弄来。” 查德·默奇森最先认为麦圭尔是诈病。查德是圆圈横条牛队里的牧童，他赶了三十英里路，并且绕了四英里的冤枉路，替麦圭尔弄来一篮子葡萄。在那烟气弥漫的屋子里待了一会儿后，他跑出来，直言不讳地把他的猜疑告诉了雷德勒。 [指那队牛都以Θ形烙印为记号。] “他的胳臂，”查德说，“比金刚石还要硬。他教我怎么打人家的大洋神经丛，挨他一拳简直象给野马连踢两下。他在诳你呢，老柯。他不会比我病得更凶。我本来不愿意讲出来，可是那小子在你这儿蒙吃蒙住，我不得不讲了。” [原文是“shore-perplexus”，应作“Solarplexus”（胃部的太阳神经丛），查德听不懂，搞错了] 牧场主是个实在人，不愿意接受查德对这件事的看法。后来，当他替麦圭尔检查身体时，动机也不是怀疑。 一天中午时分，有两个人来到牧场，下了马，把它们拴好，然后进去吃饭；这地方的风俗是好客的。其中一个人是圣安东尼奥著名的收费高昂的医师，因为一个富有的牧场主给走火的熗打伤了，请他去医治。现在他被伴送到火车站，搭车回城里。饭后，雷德勒把他拉到一边，塞了一张二十元的钞票给他，说道： “大夫，那间屋子里有个小伙子，大概害着很严重的肺病。我希望你去给他检查一下，看他病到什么程度，有没有办法治治。” “我刚才吃的那顿饭要多少钱呢，雷德勒先生？”医师从眼镜上缘看出来，直率地说。雷德勒把钞票放回口袋。医师立即走进麦圭尔的房间，牧场主在回廊里的一堆马鞍上坐着，假如诊断结果不妙，他真要埋怨自己了。 不出十分钟，医师大踏步走了出来。“你那个病人，”他马上说，“跟一枚新铸的钱币那么健全。他的肺比我的还好。呼吸、体温和脉搏都正常。胸围扩张有四英寸。浑身找不到衰弱的迹象。当然啦，我没有检验结核杆菌，不过不可能有。这个诊断，我完全负责。即使拼命抽烟，关紧窗子，把屋子里的空气弄得污浊不堪，对他也妨碍。有点咳嗽，是吗？你告诉他完全没有必要。你刚才问有没有办法替他治治。唔，我劝你让他去打木桩，或者去驯服野马。我们要上路啦。再见，先生。”医生象一股清新的劲风那样，飞也似地走了。 雷德勒伸手摘了一片栏杆旁边的牧豆树的叶子，沉思地嚼着。 替牛群打烙印的季节快要到了。第二天早晨，牛队的头目，罗斯·哈吉斯在牧场上召集了二十五个人，准备到即将开始的烙印的圣卡洛斯牧场去。六点钟，马都备了鞍，装粮食的大车也安排就绪，牧童们陆续上马，这当儿，雷德勒叫他们稍等片刻。一个小厮牵了一匹鞍辔齐全的小马来到门口。雷德勒走进麦圭尔的房间，猛地打开门。麦圭尔正躺在床上抽烟，衣服也没有穿好。 “起来。”牧场主说，他的声音象号角那样响亮。 “怎么回事？”麦圭尔有点吃惊地问道。 “起来穿好衣服。我可以容忍一条响尾蛇，可是我讨厌骗子。还要我再对你说一遍吗？”他揪住麦圭尔的脖子，把他拖到地上。 “喂，朋友，”麦圭尔狂叫说，“你疯了吗？我有病——明白吗？我多动就会送命。我什么地方跟你过不去？”——他又搬出他那套牢骚了——“我从没有求你——” “穿好衣服。”雷德勒的嗓音越来越响了。 麦圭尔咒骂，踉跄，哆嗦，同时用吃惊的亮眼睛盯着激怒的牧场主那吓人的模样，终于拖泥带水地穿上了衣服。雷德勒揪住他的衣领，走出房间，穿过院子，把他一直推到拴在门口的那匹另备的小马旁边。牧童们张着嘴，懒洋洋地坐在马鞍上。 “把这个人带走，”雷德勒对罗斯·哈吉斯说，“叫他干活。叫他多干，多睡，多吃。你们知道我已经尽力照顾了他，并且是真心实意的。昨天，圣安东尼奥最好的医师替他检查身体，说他的肺跟驴子一样健全，体质跟公牛一样结实。你知道该怎么对付他，罗斯。” 罗斯·哈吉斯没有回答，只是阴沉地笑了笑。 “噢，”麦圭尔凝视着雷德勒说，神情有点特别，“那个大夫说我没病，是吗？说我装假，是吗？你找他来看我的。你以为我没病。你说我是骗子。喂，朋友，我知道自己说话粗暴，可是我多半不是存心的。假如你到了我的地步——噢，我忘啦——那个大夫说没病。好吧，朋友，现在我去替你干活。这才是公平交易。” 他象鸟一样轻快地飞身上马，从鞍头取下鞭子，往小马身上一抽。曾在霍索恩骑着“好孩子”跑第一名（当时的赌注是十对一）的“蟋蟀”麦圭尔，现在又踩上了马蹬。 [霍索恩是加利福尼亚州西南部的一个城市；“好孩子”是马名。] 这队人马向圣卡洛斯驰去时，麦圭尔一马当先，牧童们落在后面，不由得齐声喝彩。 但是，不出一英里，他慢慢地落后了。当他们驰过牧马地，来到那片高栎树林时，他是最后的一个。他在几株栎树后面勒住马，把手帕按在嘴上。手帕拿下来时，已经浸透了鲜红的动脉血。他小心地把它扔在一簇仙人掌里面。接着，他又扬起鞭子，嘶哑地对那匹吃惊的小马说“走吧”，快跑着队伍赶去。 那晚，雷德勒接到阿拉巴马老家捎来的信。他家里死了人；要分一宗产业，叫他回去一次。第二天，他坐着四轮马车，穿过草原，直奔车站。他在阿拉巴马待了两个月才回来。回到牧场时，他发现除了伊拉里奥以外，庄院里的人几乎都不在。伊拉里奥在他离家期间，权且充当了总管。这个小伙子点点滴滴地把这段时间里的工作向他作了汇报。他得悉打烙印的营地还在干活。由于多次严重的风暴，牛群分散得很远，因此工作进行得很慢。营地现在扎在二十英里外的瓜达卢佩山谷。 “说起来，”雷德勒突然想到说，“我让他们带去的那个家伙——麦圭尔——他还在干活吗？” “我不清楚。”伊拉里奥说，“营地里的人难得来牧场。小牛身上有许多活要干。他们没提起。哦，我想那个麦圭尔早就死啦。” “死啦！”雷德勒喊道，“你说什么？” “病得很重，麦圭尔。”伊拉里奥耸耸肩膀说，“他走的时候，我就认为他活不了一两个月。” “废话！”雷德勒说，“他把你也给蒙住了，对不对？医师替他检查过，说他象牧豆树疙瘩一样结实。” “那个医师，”伊拉里奥笑着说，“他是这样告诉你的吗？那个医师没有看过麦圭尔。” “讲讲清楚。”雷德勒命令说，“你到底是什么意思？” “医师进来的时候，”那小伙子平静地说，“麦圭尔正好到外面去取水喝了。医师拖住我，用手指在我这儿乱敲，”——他把手放在胸口——“我不知道为什么。他把耳朵贴在这儿，这儿，这儿，听了听——我不知道为什么。他把一支小玻璃棒插在我嘴里。他按我手臂这个地方。他叫我轻轻地这样数——二十、三十、四十。谁知道，”伊拉里奥无可奈何地摊开双手，结束道，“那个医师干嘛要做这许多滑稽的事情？” “家里有什么马？”雷德勒简洁地问道。 “‘乡巴佬’在外面的小栅栏里吃草，先生。” “立刻替我备鞍。” 短短几分钟内，牧场主上马走了。“乡巴佬”的模样并不好看，可是跑得快，跟它的名字很相称；它大步慢跑着，脚下的道路象一条通心面给吞掉时那样，飞快地消失了。过了两小时十五分钟，雷德勒从一个隆起的小山冈上望到打烙印的营帐扎在瓜达卢佩的干河床里的一个水坑旁边。他急切地想听听他所担心的消息，来到营帐前面，翻身下马，放下“乡巴佬”的缰绳。他的心地是那样善良，当时他甚至会承认自己有罪，害死了麦圭尔。 营地上只有厨师一个人，他正在张罗晚饭，把大块大块的烤牛肉和盛咖啡的铁皮杯摆好。雷德勒不愿意开门见山地问到他最关心的那个问题。 “营地里一切都好吗，彼得？”他转弯抹角地问道。 “马马虎虎。”彼得谨慎地说，“粮食断了两次。大风把牛群给吹散了，我们只得在方圆四十英里内细细搜索。我需要一个新的咖啡壶。这里的蚊子比普通的凶。” “弟兄们——都好吗？” 彼得不是生性乐观的人。此外，问起牧童们的健康不仅是多余，而且近乎婆婆妈妈。问这种话的不象是头儿。 “剩下来的人不会错过一顿饭。”厨师说。 “剩下来的人？”雷德勒嘎声学了一遍。他不由自主地开始四下找寻麦圭尔的坟墓。他以为这儿也有象他在阿拉巴马墓地看到的那样一块白色墓碑。但是他随即觉得这种想法太傻了。 “不错，”彼得说，“剩下来的人。两个月来，营地常常移动。有的走了。” 雷德勒鼓起勇气问道： “我派来的——那个——麦圭尔——他有没有——” “嘿，”彼得双手各拿着一只玉米面包站了起来，打断了他的话，“太丢人啦，把那个可怜的、害病的小伙子派到牧牛营来。看不出他一只脚已经踏进棺材里的医师，真应该用马肚带的扣子剥他的皮。他也真是那么倔强——说来真丢人——让我告诉你他干了些什么。第一晚，营地里的弟兄们着手教他牧童的规矩。罗斯·哈吉斯抽了他一下屁股，你知道那可怜的孩子怎么啦？那小子站了起来，揍了罗斯·哈斯。狠狠地揍了他。揍得他又凶又狠，浑身都揍遍了。罗斯只不过是爬起来，换个地方又躺下罢了。 “接着，麦圭尔自己也倒地上，脸埋在草里，不停地咯血。他们说是内出血。他一躺就是十八个钟头，怎么也不能动他一动。罗斯·哈吉斯喜欢能揍他的人，他把格陵兰到波兰支那的医师都骂遍了，又着手想办法；他同‘绿枝’约翰逊把麦圭尔抬到一个营帐里，轮流喂他吃剁碎的生牛肉和威士忌。 “但是，那个孩子仿佛不想活了，晚上他溜出营帐，躺在草地里，那时候还下着细雨。‘走啦，’他说，‘让我称自己的心意死吧。他说我撒谎，说我是骗子，说我诈病。别来理睬我。’ “他就这么躺了两个星期，”厨师说，“连人都认不清，于是——” 突然响起一阵雷鸣似的声音，二十来个骑手风驰电掣地闯过丛林，来到营地。 “天哪！”彼得嚷道，立刻手忙脚乱起来，“弟兄们来啦，晚饭不在三分钟之内弄好，他们就会宰了我。” 但是雷德勒只注意一件事。一个矮小的，棕色脸盘，笑嘻嘻的家伙翻下马鞍，站在火光前面。他样子不象麦圭尔，可是—— 转眼之间，牧场主已经拉住他的手和肩膀。 “老弟，老弟，你怎么啦？”他只说出了这么一句话。 “你叫我接近土地，”麦圭尔响亮地说，他那钢钳一般的手几乎把雷德勒的指头都捏碎了，“我就在那儿找到了健康和力量，并且领悟到我过去是多么卑鄙。多谢你把我赶出去，老兄。还有——喂！这个笑话是那大夫闹的，是吗？我在窗外看见他在那个南欧人的太阳神经丛上乱敲。” “你这小子，”牧场主嚷道，“当时你干嘛不说医师根本没有替你检查过？” “噢——算了吧！”麦圭尔以前那种粗鲁的态度又冒出来一会儿，“谁也唬不了我。你从来没有问过我。你既然话已出口，把我赶了出去，我也就认了。喂，朋友，赶牛的玩意儿真够意思。我生平交的朋友当中，要算营地上的这批人最好了。你会让我呆下去的，是吗，老兄？” 雷德勒询问似地看看罗斯·哈吉斯。 “那个浑小子，”罗斯亲切的说，“是任何一个牧牛营地里最大胆，最起劲的人——打起架来也最厉害。”

Babes In The Jungle丛林中的孩子 Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West, says to me once in Little Rock: "If you ever lose your mind, Billy, and get too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In the West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in chunks of roe - you can't count 'em!" Two years afterward I found that I couldn't remember the names of the Russian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I knew the time had arrived for me to take Silver's advice. I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And I run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of haberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his nails with a silk handkerchief. "Paresis or superannuated?" I asks him. "Hello, Billy," says Silver; "I'm glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me that the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I've been saving New York for dessert. I know it's a low-down trick to take things from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and fro and think ever and anon. I'd hate for my mother to know I was skinning these weak-minded ones. She raised me better." "Is there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that does skin grafting?" I asks. "Well, no," says Silver; "you needn't back Epidermis to win today. I've only been here a month. But I'm ready to begin; and the members of Willie Manhattan's Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to contribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well send their photos to the Evening Daily. "I've been studying the town," says Silver, "and reading the papers every day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an O'Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when you are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my room and I'll tell you. We'll work the town together, Billy, for the sake of old times." Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects lying about. "There's more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds," says Silver, "than there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C. They'll bite at anything. The brains of most of 'em commute. The wiser they are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have. Why, didin't a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of Rockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto's celebrated painting of the young Saint John! "You see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That's gold mining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two hours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy it. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house, and then I took it off the market. I don't want people to give me their money. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction to keep my pride from being hurt. I want 'em to guess the missing letter in Chic-go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent of money. "Now there's another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit it. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor on the back of my hand and went to a bank and told 'em I was Admiral Dewey's nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand, but I didn't know my uncle's first name. It shows, though, what an easy town it is. As for burglars, they won't go in a house now unless there's a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on 'em. They're slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I guess, taking the town from end to end, it's a plain case of assault and Battery." "Monty," says I, when Silver had slacked, up, "you may have Manhattan correctly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I've only been in town two hours, but it don't dawn upon me that it's ours with a cherry in it. There ain't enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I'd be a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or more in their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch charms. They don't look easy to me." "You've got it, Billy," says Silver. "All emigrants have it. New York's bigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You'll be all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because they don't send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide sprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears the diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper's wife, and Bella, the Buncosteerer's bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than a blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I'll break the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of twenties." "I hope you are right, Monty," says I; "but I wish all the same I had been satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of farmers is never so short out there but what you can get a few of 'em to sign a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200 at the county bank. The people hear appear to possess instincts of self-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured enough to tackle this game." "Don't worry," says Silver. "I've got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown correctly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River ain't a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway who never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their lives! A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous enough here inside of three months to incur either Jerome's clemency or Lawson's displeasure." "Hyperbole aside," says I, "do you know of any immediate system of buncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the Salvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould's doorsteps?" "Dozens of 'em," says Silver. "How much capital have you got, Billy?" "A thousand," I told him. "I've got $1,200," says he. "We'll pool and do a big piece of business. There's so many ways we can make a million that I don't know how to begin." The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous and stirred with a kind of silent joy. "We're to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon," says he. "A man I know in the hotel wants to introduce us. He's a friend of his. He says he likes to meet people from the West." "That sounds nice and plausible," says I. "I'd like to know Mr. Morgan." "It won't hurt us a bit," says Silver, "to get acquainted with a few finance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with strangers." The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o'clock Klein brought his Wall Street friend to see us in Silver's room. "Mr. Morgan" looked some like his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left foot, and he walked with a cane. "Mr. Silver and Mr. Pescud," says Klein. "It sounds superfluous," says he, "to mention the name of the greatest financial -" "Cut it out, Klein," says Mr. Morgan. "I'm glad to know you gents; I take great interest in the West. Klein tells me you're from Little Rock. I think I've a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of you guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I -" "Now, Pierpont," cuts in Klein, "you forget!" "Excuse me, gents!" says Morgan; "since I've had the gout so bad I sometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never knew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He lived in Seattle, New Mexico." Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his can and begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice. "They have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?" asks Klein, smiling. "Stocks! No!" roars Mr. Morgan. "It's that picture I sent an agent to Europe to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it ain't to be found in all Italy. I'd pay $50,000 to-morrow for that picture - yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I cannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to -" "Why, Mr. Morgan," says klein; "I thought you owned all of the De Vinchy paintings." "What is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?" asks Silver. "It must be as big as the side of the Flatiron Building." "I'm afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver," says Morgan. "The picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called 'Love's Idle Hour.' It represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank of a purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to this country. My collection will never be complete without that picture. Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours." Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked about how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said what a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I said I thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a stroll after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward Seventh Avenue to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that instigate his admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while he buys 'em. After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me and waves his hands. "Did you see it?" says he. "Did you see it, Billy?" "What?" I asks. "Why, that picture that Morgan wants. It's hanging in that pawnshop, behind the desk. I didn't say anything because Klein was there. It's the article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can make them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any skirts, and they're doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with the blues. What did Mr. Morgan say he'd give for it? Oh, don't make me tell you. They can't know what it is in that pawnshop." When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing there as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a drink. We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains. "That's a violent specimen of a chromo you've got up there," remarked Silver, casual, to the pawnbroker. "But I kind of enthuse over the girl with the shoulderblades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for it cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in hurrying it off the nail?" The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains. "That picture," says he, "was pledged a year ago by an Italian gentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called 'Love's Idle Hour,' and it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired, and it became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is worn a great deal now." At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and walked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started for Morgan's office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two hours Silver comes back. "Did you see Mr. Morgan?" I asks. "How much did he pay you for it?" Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover. "I never exactly saw Mr. Morgan," he says, "because Mr. Morgan's been in Europe for a month. But what's worrying me, Billy, is this: The department stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for $3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone - that's what I can't understand." [从林中的孩子：英国古代民谣和儿歌中有“森林中的孩子“的故事，叙说一个恶叔叔为篡夺财产，将一对侄儿女骗至森林害死。后来为一词用来指天真轻信，容易受骗的人。] 蒙塔古·丁尔弗是西部第一流的街头推销员和贩卖赝品的骗子，有一次在小石城时，他对我说：“比利，如果你上了年纪，脑筋不灵，不能在成人中间做规矩的骗局，那就去纽约吧。西部每分钟产生一个冤大头；但是纽约的冤大头却象鱼卵一般——多得数不清！” [西部每分钟产生一个冤大头：这句话是十九世纪美国著名的马戏团老板巴南的名言，意谓世人容易上当受骗。] 两年后，我发觉自己记不清那些俄罗斯海军上将的姓名了，又发觉左耳上长了几茎白发；我认为该是采纳西尔弗的劝告的时候了。 某天中午，我到了纽约，便去百老汇路逛逛。我竟然遇到了西尔弗。他衣着华丽，靠在一家旅馆门口，用绸手帕在擦指甲上的半月痕。 “是害了麻痹性痴呆，还是告第退休了？”我问他说。 “喂，比利，”西尔弗说，“见到你真高兴。是啊，我觉得西部的人逐渐聪明起来，有些过分了。我一直留着纽约，把它当作最后的一道点心。我认为在纽约人身上捞油水未免有点儿缺德。他们熙来攘往，懵懵懂懂，更是少用脑筋。我真不愿意让我妈知道，我在剥这些低能儿的皮。她万万不会想到我这么没出息。” “那么说，施行植皮手术的老医术的候诊室里已经挤满了人吗？”我问道。 “哎，也不尽然。”西尔弗说，“剥皮的勾当暂先不考虑。我来这里才一个月。不过我准备随时都可以开始；纽约主日学校的学员们，每人自愿捐助了一块皮，帮我撑了身上这套行头，他们很可以把相片寄到《每日晚报》上去扬扬名。 “我正在研究这个城市，”西尔弗说，“每天读报。我了解这个城市，正象市政厅里的猫了解爱尔兰籍的值班警察一般。你从这里的人身上刮钱刮得稍微慢些，他们就烧得发慌，会赖在地上乱叫乱嚷。到我的房间里去坐坐，我详细告诉你。为了旧日的交情，比利，我们一起来整治这个城市吧。” 西尔弗领我走进一家旅馆。他房间里四下搁着许多不相干的东西。 “从这些大城市的乡巴佬身上搞钱的办法，”西尔弗说，“比南卡罗来纳州查尔斯顿煮米饭的花样还要多。不论下什么饵，他们都会上钩。大部分的人脑筋相差无几。他们的智力越高，理解力就越低。哎，不久前，不是有人把小洛克菲勒的油画像当作安德烈亚·德尔·萨尔托画的著名的圣约翰像卖给约·皮·摩根的吗？” [安德烈亚·德尔·萨尔托（1486—1531）：意大利画家，他画的圣约翰一生事迹壁画陈列在佛罗伦萨。洛克菲勒和摩根都是美国财阀。] “你看到角落里那捆印刷品吗，比利？那是金矿股票。有一天我上街去推销，不出两小时就不得不住手了。为什么呢？因为妨碍交通，被警察抓了去。大家争先恐后抢着买，挤得水泄不通。去警察局的路上，我卖了一些股票给警察，后来我就停止出售。我不愿意人家轻易给我钱。为了保持自尊心，我做买卖时总要给人一点儿东西。在他们给我一分钱之前，我要他们猜猜芝—哥这个地名中间缺哪个字，或者在玩玩纸牌赌博时，让他们手里先拿到一对九。 “还有一个小计谋，由于太容易得手，我不得不放弃。你看到桌上那瓶蓝墨水吗？我在手背上画一个船锚，权充刺花，然后到银行里去，说我是杜威上将的侄子。我开了一千元的支票，从他名下支款，银行愿意付现。可是我只知道我叔叔的姓，不知道他的名字叫什么。虽然没有成功，但这件事说明纽约是个多么容易搞钱的城市。至于窃贼，他们如今也不去人家家里了，除非先替他们预备好热的晚餐，再有几个大学生伺候他们。强盗在住宅区里杀了人，可是走遍全市只算是人身攻击罪。” [杜威（1837—1917）：美国海军将领，一八九八年美西战争中指挥了马尼拉湾战役。] “蒙塔，”我等西尔弗歇下来时说，“你的高论准确地贬低了纽约，可是我有些怀疑。我来这里不过两小时，但我认为它不会这么轻易落到我们手里。这里没有合我口味的乡村气氛。如果居民头发上沾着稻草，穿着假天鹅绒坎肩，佩着七叶树果做成的表附，那我就放心啦。依我看，他们并不容易上钩。” “你说得不错，比利。”西尔弗说，“初来的人都有这种感觉。纽约比小石城或者欧洲大得多，它叫外来的人看了害怕。你不久就会宽心的。老实告诉你，这里的人没有痛痛快快地把他们的钱装在洗衣篮里，上面喷了消毒剂，送来给我，我真想捧他们。我讨厌去外面搞钱。在这个城里，戴钻石的是谁？哟，是骗子的老婆温妮，恶棍的新娘贝拉。要骗纽约人的钱真是易如反掌。我担心的只有一件事：等我身上装满了面额二十元的钞票，恐怕会挤折我坎肩口袋里的雪茄烟。” “我希望你说得对，蒙塔，”我说，“不过我还是后悔没有安心在小石城做些小买卖。那里的农场主永远不会少，你总可以找几个，让他们要要求添设邮局的申请书上签个名，然后拿到银行里去借两百块钱。这里的人似乎生来就明哲保身，吝啬得很。我怕凭我们的本事在这里是吃不开的。” “别担心。”西尔弗说，“我已经把这个冥顽不灵的城市估计得非常准确，就好象北河是赫德森而东江根本不是一条江一样。住在百老汇路四个街口之内的人，除了摩天大楼之外，一辈子没有见过别的房屋！一个出色能干的西部人在这里呆上三个月，不论软哄硬骗，好歹要露几手。” “吹牛管吹牛，”我说，“你现在老实说，除了向救世军求助，或者在海伦·古尔德小姐的门前装病告帮之外，你有没有具体的计划，可以立刻弄一两块钱来花花呢？” [海伦·古尔德（1868—1938）：美国资本家杰·古尔德的长女，曾赠款给纽约大学。] “计划有的是。”西尔弗说，“你有多少资本，比利？” “一千元。”我告诉了他。 “我有一千二百元。”他说，“我们合伙大干一场。要挣大钱的办法实在太多啦，我简直不知道该从哪儿着手。” 第二天早晨，西尔弗到我下榻的旅馆里来看我，他容光焕发，看上去心里有说不出的高兴。 “今天下午我们去见见约·皮·摩根，”他说，“我在旅馆里认识的一个人要替我们介绍他。他是摩根的朋友。我说摩根喜欢见见西部的人。” “这倒不坏。”我说，“我很愿意认识摩根先生。” “认识认识几个金融大王，”西尔弗说，“对我们有益无害。我有点儿喜欢纽约对待外地人的社交方式。” 西尔弗认识的人姓克莱恩。三点钟光景，克莱因带了他那位华尔街的朋友到西尔弗的房间来拜访我们。“摩根先生”同他照片上的模样差不多，左脚裹了一块土耳其毛巾，走路时拄着一根手杖。 “西尔弗先生，佩斯克德先生，”克莱恩开口说，“我似乎不必提这位金融界最伟大的人物的名字——” “废话少说，克莱因，”摩根先生说，“同两位先生见面，我很高兴；我对西部很感兴趣。克莱因告诉我，你们是从小石城来的。我想我在那边什么地方有一两条铁路。如果你们两位喜欢玩玩沙哈，我——” [沙哈（也被译为“梭哈”）：一种纸牌赌博，每人先后发牌五张，四明一暗，互比大小，决定胜负。] “唉，皮尔庞特，”克莱因赶紧插嘴说，“你忘啦！” “对不起，哥儿们！”摩根说，“自从我害了痛风病以来，在家里无聊，偶尔玩玩纸牌。你们在小石城时，认不认识独眼儿彼得斯？他住在新墨西哥城的西雅图。” [新墨西哥城的西雅图：西雅图在美国西北部的华盛顿州；新墨西哥州在西南部；作者故意混淆，说明“摩根”的无知。] 我们还来不及回答，摩根先生已经用手杖拄着地板，来回走着，嘴里不干净地高声咒骂。 “难道华尔街今天有人抛售你的股票吗，皮尔庞特？”克莱因陪笑问道。 “股票？不是的！”摩根先生吼了起来，“是我派人去欧洲收购的那幅画。我刚想起来。他今天来电报说，找遍意大利也没有弄到。明天我愿意出五万元买那幅画——七万五千元也成。我授权派去的人要相机办理。我真不明白为什么所有的陈列馆会让一幅达·芬奇——” “哎，摩根先生，”克莱因说，“我以为你已经把达·芬奇的全部作品都买下来了。” “那幅画是什么样子，摩根先生？”西尔弗问道，“它一定大得像是弗拉特艾荣大厦的门面吧。” “我怕你的艺术修养太差啦，西尔弗先生。”摩根说，“那幅画只有二十七英寸高，四十二英寸宽；名称是‘爱的闲暇’。有许多穿衣服的模特儿在紫色河岸上跳舞。电报说那幅画可能已经运到美国来了。缺了那幅画，我的收藏就不齐全。好吧，哥儿们，再见吧；我们当金融家的晚上非早睡不可。” 摩根先生和克莱因一起坐车走了。我和西尔弗谈起大人物的脑筋真简单，一点儿不怀疑别人；西尔弗说，在摩根那样的人身上找钱真叫人惭愧；我说我也认为那确实说不过去。晚饭后，克莱因建议出去散散步；于是我们三人去七马路观光。克莱因在一家当铺橱窗里看到一对袖扣很中意，他进去买，我们也跟了进去。 我们回到旅馆，克莱因走后，西尔弗挥动着手向我蹦过来。 “你看到了吗？”他问道，“你看到了吗，比利？” “看到了什么？”我问。 “哎，摩根要的那幅画。挂在当铺里，写字台后面。我没有声张，因为克莱因在场。千真万确，就是那幅画。画上的那些女孩子画得再自然没有啦，身材窈窕，如果穿衣服，一定都合乎胸围三十六英寸，腰围二十五，臀围四十二的标准，她们都在河边跳慢四步。摩根先生说他愿意出多少钱来着？噢，不用我告诉你啦。当铺里的人决不会知道那幅画是值大钱的。” 第二天早晨，当铺还没有开门，我和西尔弗早就在门口等着，仿佛急于典当我们的衣服去换酒喝似的。我们走进去，先看看表链。 “上面挂的那幅五彩石印画太粗糙了。”西尔弗装出随便的样子对当铺老板说，“可是我很中意那个袒肩膀、红头发的姑娘。我给你两块两毛五分钱，我想你立刻就会脱手了吧。” 当铺老板笑了笑，继续拿出镀金表链给我们看。 “那幅画，”他说，“是去年一个意大利人抵押给我的。我凭它借了五百块钱给他。画名叫做‘爱的闲暇’，是利奥那多·达·芬奇画的。两天前，法定的抵押期限已经过了，不能再赎取了。这儿有一种表链现在很时行。” 过了半小时，我和西尔弗付了当铺老板两千元，捧着那幅画出来。西尔弗雇了一辆车去摩根的办公室。我回旅馆去等他。两小时后，西尔弗回来了。 “你见到摩根先生了吗？”我问道，“他付了你多少钱？” 西尔弗坐下来，颓然抚弄着台布的流苏。 “我根本没有见过摩根先生，”他说，“因为摩根先生一个月之前就去欧洲了。但是有一件事叫我弄不明白，比利：百货公司里都有同样的画出售，连镜框一起，每幅卖三块四毛八分钱。但是光买镜框，却要三块五毛——真把我搞糊涂啦。”

While the Auto Waits汽车等待的时候 Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again to that quiet corner of that quiet, *****all park the girl in gray. She sat upon a bench and read a book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which print could be accomplished. To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough to mask its impeccancy of style and fit. A large- meshed veil imprisoned her turban hat and a face that shone through it with a calm and unc*****cious beauty. She had come there at the same hour on the day previous, and on the day before that; and there was one who knew it. The young man who knew it hovered near, relying upon burnt sacrifices to the great joss, Luck. His piety was rewarded, for, in turning a page, her book slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench a full yard away. The young man pounced upon it with instant avid- ity, returning it to its owner with that air that seems to flourish in parks and public places - a compound of gallantry and hope, tempered with respect for the policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice, be risked an inc*****equent remark upon the weather that in- troductory topic resp*****ible for so much of the world's unhappiness-and stood poised for a mo- ment, awaiting his fate. The girl looked him over leisurely; at his ordinary, neat dress and his features distinguished by nothing particular in the way of expression. "You may sit down, if you like," she said, in a full, deliberate contralto. "Really, I would like to have you do so. The light is too bad for reading. I would prefer to talk." The vassal of Luck slid upon the seat by her side with complaisance. "Do you know," be said, speaking the formula with which park chairmen open their meetings, "that you are quite the stunningest girl I have seen in a long time? I had my eye on you yesterday. Didn't know somebody was bowled over by those pretty lamps of yours, did you, honeysuckle?" "Whoever you are," said the girl, in icy tones, "you must remember that I am a lady. I will excuse the remark you have just made because the mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one -- in your circle. I asked you to sit down; if the invitation must con- stitute me your honeysuckle, consider it with- drawn." "I earnestly beg your pardon," pleaded the young ran. His expression of satisfaction had changed to one of penitence and humility. It was my fault, you know -I mean, there are girls in parks, you know - that is, of course, you don't know, but -- " "Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course I know. Now, tell me about these people passing and crowding, each way, along these paths. Where are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy?" The young man had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue was now for a waiting part; he could not guess the role be would be expected to play. "It is interesting to watch them," he replied, pos- tulating her mood. "It is the wonderful drama of life. Some are going to supper and some to -- er -- other places. One wonders what their histories are." "I do not," said the girl; "I am not so inquisi- tive. I come here to sit because here, only, can I be tear the great, common, throbbing heart of hu- manity. My part in life is cast where its beats are never felt. Can you surmise why I spoke to you, Mr. -- ?" "Parkenstacker," supplied the young man. Then be looked eager and hopeful. No," said the girl, holding up a slender finger, and smiling slightly. "You would recognize it im- mediately. It is impossible to keep one's name out of print. Or even one's portrait. This veil and this hat of my maid furnish me with an incog. You should have seen the chauffeur stare at it when he thought I did not see. Candidly, there are five or six names that belong in the holy of holies, and mine, by the accident of birth, is one of them. I spoke to you, Mr. Stackenpot -- " "Parkenstacker," corrected the young man, mod- estly. " -- Mr. Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk, for once, with a natural man -- one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of wealth and supposed social su- periority. Oh! you do not know how weary I am of it -- money, money, money! And of the men who surround me, dancing like little marionettes all cut by the same pattern. I am sick of pleasure, of jewels, of travel, of society, of luxuries of all kinds." "I always had an idea," ventured the young man, hesitatingly, "that money must be a pretty good thing." "A competence is to be desired. But when you leave so many millions that -- !" She concluded the sentence with a gesture of despair. "It is the mo- otony of it" she continued, "that palls. Drives, dinners, theatres, balls, suppers, with the gilding of superfluous wealth over it all. Sometimes the very tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass nearly drives me mad." Mr. Parkenstacker looked ingenuously interested. "I have always liked," he said, "to read and hear about the ways of wealthy and fashionable folks. I suppose I am a bit of a snob. But I like to have my information accurate. Now, I had formed the opin- ion that champagne is cooled in the bottle and not by placing ice in the glass." The girl gave a musical laugh of genuine amuse- ment. "You should know," she explained, in an indul- gent tone, "that we of the non-useful class depend for our amusement upon departure from precedent. Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne. The idea was originated by a visiting Prince of Tartary while dining at the Waldorf. It will soon give way to some other whim. Just as at a dinner party this week on Madison Avenue a green kid glove was laid by the plate of each guest to be put on and used while eating olives." "I see," admitted the young man, humbly. "These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the common public." "Sometimes," continued the girl, acknowledging his confession of error by a slight bow, "I have thought that if I ever should love a man it would be one of lowly station. One who is a worker and not a drone. But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove stronger than my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two. One is a Grand Duke of a German principality. I think he has, or has bad, a wife, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The other is an English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of the Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you these things, Mr. Packenstacker? "Parkenstacker," breathed the young man. "In- deed, you cannot know how much I appreciate your confidences." The girl contemplated him with the calm, imper- sonal regard that befitted the difference in their sta- tions. "What is your line of business, Mr. Parken- stacker?" she asked. "A very humble one. But I hope to rise in the world. Were you really in earnest when you said that you could love a man of lowly position?" "Indeed I was. But I said 'might.' There is the Grand Duke and the Marquis, you know. Yes; no calling could be too humble were the man what I would wish him to be." "I work," declared Mr. Parkenstacker, "in a res- taurant." The girl shrank slightly. "Not as a waiter?" she said, a little imploringly. "Labor is noble, but personal attendance, you know -- valets and -- " "I am not a waiter. I am cashier in" -- on the street they faced that bounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant electric sign "RESTAU- RANT" -- "I am cashier in that restaurant you am there." The girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design upon her left wrist, and rose, hurriedly. She thrust her book into a glittering reticule sus- pended from her waist, for which, however, the book was too large. "Why are you not at work?" she asked. "I am on the night turn," said the young man; it is yet an hour before my period begins. May I not hope to see you again?" "I do not know. Perhaps - but the whim may not seize me again. I must go quickly now. There is a dinner, and a box at the play -- and, oh! the same old round. Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper corner of the park as you came. One with a white body "And red running gear?" asked the young man, knitting his brows reflectively. "Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He supposes me to be shopping in the de- partment store across the square. Conceive of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our chauffeurs. Good-night." "But it is dark now," said Mr. Parkenstacker, "and the park is full of rude men. May I not walk -- " "If you have the slightest regard for my wishes," said the girl, firmly, "you will remain at this bench for ten minutes after I have left. I do not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware that autos generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again, good-night" Swift and stately she moved away through the dusk. The young man watched her graceful form as she reached the pavement at the park's edge, and turned up along it toward the corner where stood the automobile. Then he treacherously and unhesitat- ingly began to dodge and skim among the park trees and shrubbery in a course parallel to her route, keep- ing her well in sight. When she reached the corner she turned her head to glance at the motor car, and then passed it, con tinuing on across the street. Sheltered behind a con- venient standing cab, the young man followed her movements closely with his eyes. Passing down the sidewalk of the street opposite the park, she entered the restaurant with the blazing sign. The place was one of those frankly glaring establishments, all white, paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and conspicuously. The girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its rear, whence she quickly emerged without her bat and veil. The cashier's desk was well to the front. A red- head girl an the stool climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so. The girl in gray mounted in her place. The young man thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly back along the sidewalk. At the corner his foot struck a small, paper-covered volume lying there, sending it sliding to the edge of the turf. By its picturesque cover he recognized it as the book the girl had been reading. He picked it up carelessly, and saw that its title was "New Arabian Nights," the author being of the name of Stevenson. He dropped it again upon the grass, and lounged, irresolute, for a minute. Then he stepped into the automobile, reclined upon the cushions, and said two words to the chauffeur: "Club, Henri." 黄昏刚降临，穿灰色衣服的姑娘又来到那个安静的小公园的安静的角落里。她坐在长椅上看书，白天还有半小时的余辉，可以看清书本上的字。 再说一遍：她的衣服是灰色的，并且朴素得足以掩盖式样和剪裁的完美。一张大网眼的面纱罩住了她的头巾帽和散发着安详恬静的美的脸蛋。昨天同一个时候，她也来到这里，前天也是如此；有一个人了解这个情况。 了解这个情况的年轻人逡（qun）巡走近，把希望寄托在幸运之神身上。他的虔城得到了报酬，因为她翻书的时候，书本从她手里滑下来，在椅子一磕，落到足足有一码远的地方。 年轻人迫不及待地扑到书上，带着在公园和公共场所里司空见惯的神情把它还给它的主人，那种神情既殷切又充满希望，还搀杂一些对附近那个值班警察的忌惮。他用悦耳的声调冒险说了一句没头没脑的关于天气的话——那种造成世间多少不幸的开场白——静静地站了一会儿，等待着他的运气。 姑娘从容不迫地把他打量了一下；瞅着他那整洁而平凡的衣服和他那没有什么特殊表情的容貌。 “你高兴的话不妨坐下。”她不慌不忙地说，声调低沉爽朗。“说真的，我倒希望你坐下来。光线太坏了，看书不合适。我宁愿聊聊天。” 幸运的侍臣受宠若惊地在她身边坐下。 “你可知道，”他把公园里的主席们宣布开会时的公式搬出来说，“我很久没有看到像你这样了不起的姑娘啦。昨天我就注意到了你。你可知道，有人被你那双美丽的眼睛迷住啦，小妞儿？” “不论你是谁，”姑娘冷冰冰地说，“你必须记住我是个上等女人。我可以原谅你刚才说的话，因为这类误会在你的圈子里，毫无疑问，是并不稀罕的。我请你坐下来；如果这一请却招来了你的‘小妞儿’，那就算我没请过。” “我衷心请你原谅。”年轻人央求说。他的得意神色马上让位于悔罪和卑屈。“是我不对，你明白——我是说，公园里有些姑娘，你明白——那是说，当然啦，你不明白，不过——” “别谈这种事啦，对不起。我当然明白。现在谈谈在这条小路上来来往往，推推搡搡的人吧。他们去向何方？他们为什么这样匆忙？他们幸福吗？” 年轻人立刻抛开他刚才的调情的神情。现在他只有干等的份儿；他琢磨不透自己应该扮演什么角色。 “看看他们确实很有意思。”他顺着她的心情说，“这是生活的美妙的戏剧。有的去吃晚饭，有的——呃——到别的地方去。真猜不透他们的身世是怎么样的。” “我不去猜，”姑娘说，“我没有那样好奇。我坐在这儿，是因为只有在这儿我才能接近人类伟大的、共同的、搏动的心脏。我在生活中的地位使我永远感不到这种搏动。你猜得出我为什么跟你聊天吗——贵姓？” “帕肯斯塔格。”年轻人回答说。接着，他急切而期待地盼望她自报姓氏。 “我不能告诉你。”姑娘举起一只纤细的手指，微微一笑说，“一说出来你就知道我的身份了。不让自己的姓名在报刊上出现简直不可能。连照片也是这样。这张面纱和我女仆的帽子遮盖了我的真面目。你应该注意到，我的司机总是在他以为我不留神的时候朝我看。老实说，有五、六个显赫的名门望族，我由于出生的关系就属于其中之一。我之所以要跟你说话，斯塔肯帕特先生——” “帕肯斯塔格。”年轻人谦虚地更正说。 “——帕肯斯塔格先生，是因为我想跟一个普普通通的人谈话，即使一次也好，跟一个没有被可鄙的财富和虚伪的社会地位所玷污的人谈话。哦！你不会知道我是多么厌倦——金钱、金钱、金钱！我还厌倦那些在我周围装模作样的男人，他们活像是一个模子里刻出来的傀儡。欢乐、珠宝、旅行、交际、各式各样的奢华都叫我腻味透顶。” “我始终有一个想法，”年轻人吞吞吐吐地试探说，“金钱准是一样很好的东西。” “金钱只要够你过充裕的生活就行啦。可是当你有了几百万、几百万的时候——”她做了个表示无奈的手势，结束了这句话，“叫人生厌的是那种单调，”她接下去说，“乘车兜风、午宴、看戏、舞会、晚宴、以及这一切像镀金似地蒙在外面的过剩的财富。有时候，我的香槟酒杯里的冰块的叮当声几乎要使我发疯。” 帕肯斯塔格先生坦率地显出很感兴趣的样子。 “我有这么一种脾气，”他说，“就是喜欢看书报上写的，或者听人家讲的关于富有的时髦人物的生活方式。我想我有点儿虚荣。不过我喜欢了解得彻底一些。我一向有一个概念，认为香槟酒是连瓶冰镇，而不是把冰搁在酒杯里的。” 姑娘发出一连串银铃般的，觉得好玩的笑声。 “你应当知道，”她带着原谅的口吻说，“我们这种吃饱饭没事干的人就靠标新立异来找消遣。目前流行的花样是把冰块搁在香槟酒里。这个办法是一位鞑靼王子在沃尔多夫大饭店吃饭时发明的。不用多久它就会让位给别的怪念头。正如本星期麦迪逊大街的一次宴会上，每位客人的盘子旁边放了一只绿羊皮手套，以便吃橄榄的时候戴用。” “我明白啦。”年轻人谦虚地承认说，“小圈子里的这些特别花样，普通人是不熟悉的。” “有时候，”姑娘略微欠身，接受了他的认错，“我这样想，假如我有一天爱上一个人的话，那个人一定是地位很低的。一个劳动的人，而不是不干活的懒汉。不过，毫无疑问，对于阶级和财富的考虑可能压倒我原来的意图。目前就有两个人在追求我。一个是某个日耳曼公国的大公爵。我猜想他现在有，或者有过一个妻子，被他的放纵和残忍逼得发了疯。另一个是英国侯爵，他是那样的冷酷和唯利是图，以至相比之下，我倒宁愿选择那个魔鬼似的公爵了。我怎么会把这些都告诉你的啊，派肯斯塔格先生？” “帕肯斯塔格。”年轻人倒抽了一口气说，“说真的，你想象不出你这般推心置腹使我感到有多么荣幸。” 姑娘无动于衷地看看他，那种漠然的眼色正适合他们之间地位悬殊的状况。 “你是干哪一行的，帕肯斯塔格先生？”她问道。 “很低微，但是我希望在社会上混出一个模样来。你刚才说你可能爱上一个地位卑贱的人，这话可当真？” “自然当真。不过我刚才说的是‘有可能’。还有大公爵和侯爵在呢，你明白。是啊，假如一个男人合我的心意，职业低微也不是太大的障碍。” “我是，”帕肯斯塔格宣布说，“在饭馆里干活的。” 姑娘稍稍一震。 “不是侍者吧？”姑娘略微带着央求的口气说，“劳动是高尚的，不过——服侍别人，你明白——仆从和——“ “我不是侍者。我是出纳员，就在”——他们面前正对着公园的街上有一块耀眼的“饭店”灯光招牌——“你看到那家饭馆吗，我就在里面当出纳员。” 姑娘看看左腕上一只镶在式样华丽的手镯上的小表，急忙站了起来。她把书塞进一个吊在腰际的闪闪发亮的手提袋里，可是书比手提袋大多了。 “你怎么不上班呢？”她问道。 “我值夜班，”年轻人说，“再过一小时我才上班。我可不可以跟你再会面？” “很难说。也许——不过我可能不再发这种奇想了。现在我得赶快走啦。还有一个宴会，之后上剧院——再之后，哦！总是老一套。你来的时候也许注意到公园前头的拐角上有一辆汽车吧。一辆白车身的。” “红轮子的那辆吗？”年轻人皱着眉头沉思地说。 “是的。我总是乘那辆车子。皮埃尔在那里等我。他以为我在广场对面的百货公司时买东西。想想看，这种生活该有多么狭窄，甚至对自己的司机都要隐瞒。再见。” “现在天黑啦，”帕肯斯塔格先生说，“公园里都是一些粗鲁的人。我可不可以陪你——” “假如你尊重我的愿望，”姑娘坚决地说，“我希望你等我离开之后，在椅子上坐十分钟再走。我并不是说你有什么企图，不过你也许知道汽车上一般都有主人姓氏的字母装饰。再见吧。” 她在薄暮中迅疾而端庄地走开了。年轻人看着她那优美的身形走到公园边上的人行道上。然后在人行道上朝汽车停着的拐角走去。接着，他不怀好意，毫不犹豫地借着公园里树木的掩护，沿着同她平行的路线，一直牢牢地盯着她。 她走到拐角处，扭过头来朝汽车瞥了一眼，然后经过汽车旁边，继续向对街走去。年轻人躲在一辆停着的马车背后，密切注意她的行动。她走上公园对面马路的人行道，进了那家有耀眼的灯光招牌的饭馆。那家饭馆全是由白漆和玻璃装修的，一览无遗，人们可以没遮没拦地在那里吃价钱便宜的饭菜。姑娘走进饭馆后部一个比较隐蔽的地方，再出来时，帽子和面纱已经取下来了。 出纳员的柜台在前面。凳子上一个红头发的姑娘爬了下来，一面爬，一面露骨地瞅瞅挂钟。穿灰色衣服的姑娘登上了她的座位。 年轻人两手往口袋里一插，在人行道上慢慢地往回走。在拐角上，他脚下碰到一本小小的、纸面的书，把它踢到了草皮边上。那张花花绿绿的封面使他认出这就是那姑娘刚才看的书。他漫不经心地捡起来，看到书名是《新天方夜谭》，作者是斯蒂文森。他仍旧把它扔在草地上，迟疑地逗留了片刻。然后，他跨进那辆等着的汽车，舒舒服服地往座垫上一靠，简单地以司机说： [斯蒂文森（1850--1864）：英国作家，《新天方夜谭》是一部带有异国情调的惊险浪漫故事集，其中刻意追求新奇和刺激，脱离了现实。] “俱乐部，昂利。”

I've been deeply impressed by his The Gift of the Magi, coz that's the first time for us to really rewrite a story into a short drama and try our best for it.

谢谢分享！

谢谢楼主分享这样好的资源。
没错，我是来踢馆滴，书友联盟祝你羊年快乐，来书盟玩耍吧，咩咩咩~

这个值得慢慢看~很有学习的价值~~
感谢楼主分享~~
【没错，我是来踢馆滴，书友联盟祝你羊年快乐，来书盟玩耍吧，咩咩咩~】

目录Catalogue

After Twenty Years二十年以后
The Cop and the Anthem警察与赞美诗
The Gift of the Magi麦琪的礼物
The Last Leaf 最后一片叶子
A Cosmopolite in a Cafe咖啡馆里的世界公民
The Furnished Room带家具出租的房间
A Service of Love爱的牺牲
Mammon and the Archer爱神与财神
The Romance of a Busy Broker证券经纪人的浪漫故事
An Adjustment of Nature艺术加工
A Double-Dyed Deceiver双料骗子
The Ransom of Red Chief红毛酋长的赎金
Springtime a la Carte菜单上的春天
A Municipal Report市政报告
Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen两位感恩节的绅士
Telemachus, Friend刎颈之交
An Unfinished Story 没有完的故事
The Princess and the Puma公主与美洲狮
The Girl And The Habit姑娘和习惯
Lost on Dress Parade华而不实
The Handbook of Hymen婚姻手册
The Pimienta Pancakes比绵塔薄饼
Hygeia at the Solito索利托牧场的卫生学
Babes In The Jungle丛林中的孩子
While the Auto Waits汽车等待的时候

谢谢分享。

厉害

楼主棒棒哒

谢谢分享~~~~

thx for sharing~

欧亨利短篇小说集 The Stories Of O.Henry

I suppose you have an enclosure.
Anyway, thanks!

只好看翻译好了的情节~~

辛苦了