月亮与六便士-英文版-46～50章-chapter46-50.doc

Chａpter　ＸLVI

Hａd ｎot ｂeen iｎ Tahiti　ｌoｎg ｂefｏrｅ　Ｉ met Cａpｔain Nｉchols。 He came in　onｅ　ｍoｒnｉng ｗhｅｎ Ｉ　wａs　ｈavｉng ｂｒｅakfａst　on　ｔhe tｅrｒace of the hｏteｌ　aｎd intｒodｕｃed　hiｍself。 Hｅ had　ｈeard　tｈａt Ｉ ｗａs ｉｎtereｓted in　Chaｒlｅs Striｃkland,　and ａnｎouncｅｄ　tｈat　he wａs cｏme to have a talk　abouｔ hｉm. Tｈｅｙ are as　fond of ｇｏssip in Tahiti as　ｉｎ an English villaｇe， anｄ　oｎe ｏr　two enquｉｒies I ｈａd ｍade　ｆor ｐiｃtures bｙ Stricｋland haｄ beｅn quicklｙ　sｐread。 Ｉ asｋed　the straｎgeｒ if ｈe　hａd bｒｅaｋfasｔeｄ．
＂Yeｓ; I　ｈave ｍy ｃofｆｅｅ early，” he aｎswｅrｅｄ，　"but I doｎ’t mind haｖｉｎg a dｒop oｆ whｉsky.”
I called the Ｃhｉｎｅse　boy。
”You ｄｏn’t ｔｈink it’s ｔoo early？" sａiｄ ｔhｅ Capｔａin.
”You aｎd　yoｕｒ　liｖer　must dｅcide　tｈat beｔｗeen　ｙou，” Ｉ reｐｌｉed.
"Ｉ'm pracｔｉcally a ｔeeｔotallｅr，” he　saｉd, ａs he pourｅd himｓｅlf oｕt a goｏd haｌｆ—tｕmbler　oｆ Cａｎadian Ｃlub。
When ｈe ｓmｉleｄ ｈe ｓhowed brｏkｅｎ ａnd diｓｃｏｌｏured teetｈ. He was a　verｙ　lean maｎ,　of no mｏre　ｔhan aveｒagｅ height， with gray hａiｒ ｃｕt ｓhort ａnd a stｕbblｙ　grａy moustacｈe。 Hｅ had nｏt　ｓｈａved　fｏr a couplｅ ｏf days. Hｉs ｆace was dｅepｌy linｅd， ｂｕrned bｒown　by ｌoｎg eｘposure ｔo　ｔhe sun, ａnd he　ｈad a ｐair of sｍalｌ　blｕe eyeｓ　ｗhich were astonｉｓｈinglｙ shiｆty。 Theｙ ｍoｖed quickｌy， fｏｌlowiｎg my sｍaｌlesｔ ｇestuｒｅ, aｎｄ ｔhey　gaｖe　ｈim tｈe look of　a　veｒy thorｏugｈ　rogｕe。 Bｕt at　the ｍomeｎｔ　ｈｅ ｗas aｌｌ　heａrtinesｓ anｄ ｇoｏｄ—fellowｓhｉp。 Ｈe　ｗａs drｅssed　iｎ　ａ bｅdraggled ｓuiｔ ｏｆ khaki， aｎd hiｓ ｈandｓ　woulｄ haｖe　beeｎ alｌ the bｅtter for a wａsｈ．
"I ｋneｗ Sｔriｃklａnd ｗell，” he saiｄ, as ｈe leaｎed back in his chaiｒ and ｌit　the cｉｇaｒ　I haｄ　oｆfereｄ ｈim。 "It’s ｔhｒouｇh me　hｅ came　ｏuｔ　ｔo tｈe　islandｓ。"
”Where　ｄｉd you　mｅet him?＂　I asｋｅd。
"Ｉｎ Ｍａrｓeｉllｅｓ.”
”Whａt ｗere you ｄoing　ｔheｒｅ？”
Hｅ ｇave　ｍe an ｉngratｉating　ｓmile。
"Welｌ, I gｕeｓs　I wａｓ　oｎ tｈe beacｈ。"
My frienｄ’ｓ apｐearａnｃe ｓuｇｇested that he　wａs now in ｔhｅ same　predicaｍenｔ， aｎｄ Ｉ pｒeparｅｄ ｍysｅｌf to culｔｉvate　aｎ agreeａble acqｕaintance。　The socｉeｔy of beach—coｍberｓ　ａlways ｒｅｐａyｓ the ｓmall pains　ｙoｕ need be at　tｏ　ｅnjoy it. Ｔhey aｒe　easｙ　of aｐpｒoacｈ aｎd　affａble ｉn cｏｎversaｔion. Tｈey seldom put ｏｎ　aｉｒs， anｄ the　offｅr　oｆ ａ　dｒｉnk is　a ｓｕre wａy to　thｅir hearｔs.　Yｏu ｎeｅd no laboriｏus steｐｓ to enｔer　upｏn ｆamilｉarity with　tｈem， aｎd yｏｕ can earn ｎｏt onlｙ tｈeｉr conｆidenｃｅ， ｂut their gratituｄe， by turning　an ａttentive eａr　ｔo ｔheｉr dｉｓcｏuｒse。　Thｅy　look ｕpon converｓａtｉoｎ as　ｔhe ｇreat pｌｅasuｒｅ of　lｉfe, tｈerｅｂy　provinｇ thｅ　exceｌlence oｆ ｔheir ciｖiｌisation, and　for　the ｍost　paｒt tｈey arｅ enterｔaｉnｉｎg talｋers.　The　extent of their　expｅrience is ｐｌeasantly　balａnced　by tｈe feｒｔｉlity　of theiｒ imaｇinatｉoｎ.　Ｉt ｃanｎｏt be sａid that thｅy aｒe ｗｉthoｕｔ　gｕiｌｅ, but ｔheｙ　havｅ　a tolerant respecｔ for　ｔｈe law,　when　tｈe　ｌaｗ is suｐporｔｅd bｙ　strenｇth。 Ｉt iｓ　hazardｏus tｏ pｌaｙ ｐoker with them, buｔ tｈeiｒ iｎgｅnuiｔy addｓ a　peculiaｒ exciｔement　to the ｂest gａｍe　in tｈｅ world。 I　came tｏ ｋnow Captａin Ｎｉchｏls　ｖery ｗｅll ｂｅｆore I　left Taｈｉti, and　I aｍ the rｉｃheｒ for hｉs acquａintaｎce． Ｉ do ｎｏｔ consider　thａｔ the　ｃigarｓ ａnd　whiｓky hｅ ｃonsumeｄ ａt my ｅxpense　（he aｌways ｒefusｅd cocktaiｌs, siｎce he ｗas pｒacｔiｃａlly ａ tｅｅｔotaｌleｒ),　and the feｗ dｏllarｓ， ｂｏrrowed with a civil　ａir ｏf ｃｏｎfｅｒrｉng a ｆaｖour ｕｐon　ｍe， that paｓｓeｄ ｆrom mｙ poｃket ｔo ｈis, weｒe　in ａnｙ　wａｙ ｅｑuｉｖalent ｔo　ｔｈe enｔeｒtainment　he afforｄeｄ me。　I reｍained his debtｏr．　Ｉ　ｓhoｕld bｅ sorry if my ｃonsciencｅ, insistiｎg ｏn a　riｇid atｔｅntion ｔo　the matｔer　iｎ　ｈanｄ, foｒced me tｏ ｄｉsmiss him　in a couplｅ　ｏf lines.
I do not knｏw wｈy Caｐtain Nichols ｆirst leｆｔ Enｇlanｄ。　Ｉt was a　mａtter ｕpｏｎ　which he ｗas reｔicent, aｎｄ ｗiｔｈ persons of hｉｓ　kind ａ　diｒeｃt　qｕestｉon is　never ｖery dｉｓcrｅet。　He ｈinted aｔ uｎdeserｖed ｍisforｔunｅ,　ａnd thｅｒｅ is no douｂt ｔhat ｈe　lｏoked　ｕpon　himsｅlｆ ａｓ　ｔhｅ vｉctｉｍ ｏf　injusticｅ.　My fancｙ pｌaｙｅd ｗith ｔhe varｉous fｏrms　of fｒaud aｎd vｉolencｅ, aｎd I agreed ｗｉtｈ ｈim　ｓympatheticallｙ ｗｈｅｎ he remarｋed ｔhat　thｅ ａuthｏrities ｉｎ the　oｌd　countrｙ　were so　damned tecｈｎｉcaｌ。　Ｂut iｔ ｗas niｃe to sｅe tｈat ａny　unplｅasantnｅss he had ｅnｄurｅｄ　iｎ　his　nａtive land had not　iｍｐaｉｒed his ardent ｐａtrｉoｔiｓm。　He ｆrｅqueｎtly declared thaｔ Enｇｌand ｗas ｔｈｅ fiｎest　counｔry　in the worｌd, ｓir，　and ｈｅ fｅlｔ　ａ lｉｖely ｓupｅriｏrｉty oｖer Aｍeriｃans,　Colonialｓ， Ｄagos, Dｕtｃｈmen， and　Ｋanａｋaｓ。
But I do not think ｈe ｗaｓ a ｈappy maｎ． He　suffeｒed froｍ dyｓpeｐsia,　ａnd he might ofｔen ｂe　ｓeeｎ ｓuckiｎg　ａ tablet oｆ pepsiｎ;　in the morｎiｎｇ　his ａppeｔiｔｅ　wａｓ poor; but ｔhis aｆfｌictｉｏｎ alonｅ wｏuld harｄlｙ ｈａvｅ　impaｉred his ｓpiｒits. He hａｄ　a ｇreaｔeｒ cause of ｄiscoｎｔeｎt witｈ　lifｅ　ｔhan　thiｓ。 Eight　years befoｒe he　ｈad rashlｙ married a　wｉｆe。 Thｅrｅ　ａrｅ mｅn wｈom a meｒciful Prｏvidence ｈａs ｕnｄoubteｄｌy　ｏｒdained ｔo a siｎgｌe liｆe， but whｏ frｏm wilfulneｓs ｏr through circｕｍstanceｓ tｈｅy　could not　cope　ｗith　have flown ｉn tｈｅ ｆace　of its　ｄecｒees. Ｔhere is　no　obｊect ｍoｒe dｅｓerｖing ｏf pity　ｔhａn　the married ｂachｅlor。　Ｏf　sucｈ was Cａｐｔain Niｃhols。　Ｉ mｅt hｉｓ wiｆｅ。 Shｅ waｓ　a woman of tｗenｔy—eiｇｈｔ， I should think,　tｈouｇh of a typｅ whｏse aｇe is　alwａys ｄoubtfuｌ; for shｅ cannoｔ ｈaｖe　lookｅd dｉfｆｅrent wｈen she　was ｔwｅnty， aｎd　at ｆoｒty wouｌd look　no ｏｌdｅr。 She　gave me an iｍｐｒession ｏf　exｔraoｒdinary tiｇhｔｎｅsｓ. Ｈer pｌaiｎ face wｉth its narroｗ ｌips was ｔight, ｈｅr skin was stretｃhｅｄ tigｈｔｌy oveｒ heｒ bones, ｈeｒ smile was tight, hｅr hair　was tｉgｈt, hｅr clothｅs　were tighｔ, ａnd ｔｈｅ　white drill she wore　had　alｌ　ｔhe efｆeｃt　of blaｃk boｍbazinｅ。 I ｃould　nｏt　imagine why　Capｔaｉｎ　Nｉcｈolｓ ｈaｄ mａｒrieｄ her， and　haｖing ｍaｒriｅｄ her wｈy he　had not　deｓeｒtｅd　her。 Perｈaps　he had， ｏften， aｎｄ his melancholy ａrｏse ｆrｏm tｈｅ fact tｈat　he　cｏuld　ｎevｅr　succeeｄ。 However ｆar ｈe wｅnt　and ｉn howsoever sｅcｒｅt　a ｐlacｅ　hｅ　hiｄ hｉｍｓelf, I felt suｒe　thａt Mrs.　Nichols，　inexorable aｓ fatｅ　ａnd ｒeｍorseｌesｓ　as　cｏｎscieｎｃe, woulｄ ｐｒesenｔly rｅjoin him. He could as　liｔtｌe　eｓcape her as the cａｕｓe　can eｓcape　the eｆfeｃt。
The rogue,　liｋe　ｔhｅ ａrtisｔ aｎd perhapｓ thｅ gｅnｔｌｅmaｎ， ｂelongs to ｎｏ cｌaｓｓ．　Ｈe ｉs not　embarrasｓed ｂｙ thｅ sanｓ geｎｅ ｏf　thｅ hｏｂo, ｎoｒ pｕt oｕt of ｃounｔｅnance by tｈe etiｑueｔte oｆ　ｔhe pｒinｃｅ。　Bｕｔ Ｍｒｓ． Niｃhｏｌs bｅｌongeｄ to thｅ weｌl—dｅｆined cｌass, of　ｌate become　vocal，　which　iｓ known　as tｈe　lower-ｍiddle。 Hｅr　father， in ｆａct， was a ｐoliceｍａｎ。 I aｍ　certain tｈaｔ he was　an efficient　one. I　dｏ nｏt kｎow what hｅr hold ｗａs on tｈe Caｐtaｉn, ｂuｔ I do　not thinｋ　it　waｓ loｖe。 I　neｖer　ｈearｄ hｅｒ　speak， but ｉt　maｙ be that in　ｐｒivate ｓhe haｄ a　copiouｓ conversatiｏn.　At ａnｙ ratｅ, Ｃapｔaiｎ Nicｈoｌs waｓ ｆｒighｔened ｔo deａth ｏf heｒ. Someｔimeｓ， ｓittｉｎg　with me on　the　ｔerrａcｅ of the hotel,　he　would　beｃome ｃｏnscious ｔhａt　she wａs　waｌking　iｎ　the　road outsidｅ。 Sｈe　did　not calｌ him; sｈe gavｅ　no　sign　that she waｓ　aｗare of　his　exｉsｔeｎce;　ｓhｅ merｅly walked　ｕｐ anｄ　dowｎ　ｃoｍpｏsｅdly。 Ｔhｅn　a　stranｇｅ unｅasinesｓ ｗouｌd seize the Captain；　ｈe ｗｏｕld looｋ ａt his watcｈ　anｄ sigh。
"Well，　I mｕst be off,” ｈe sａid.
Nｅitｈer　wiｔ noｒ　whiｓky　could　detaｉn　ｈim theｎ. Yｅt he waｓ a man ｗho had fａceｄ　uｎｄauntｅd　hurricane and ｔyphoon, ａnd woｕld noｔ　hａve ｈｅｓiｔateｄ　to fight a ｄozeｎ unarmeｄ niggｅｒs wiｔh　nothｉng buｔ　ａ　rｅvoｌｖer tｏ help him。 Ｓｏmetｉmes Mｒs. Nichｏls would senｄ her daugｈter,　ａ　pale—faced， sullen cｈilｄ　ｏf seveｎ， ｔo tｈe　ｈoｔel.
"Moｔhｅｒ wants　ｙoｕ，” she sａｉd, ｉn a　ｗhｉniｎｇ tｏne。
"Vｅrｙ weｌl, my deaｒ,” said　Captain　Nichoｌs。
He　rose to　his feet at　oｎcｅ, aｎd accomｐanｉed hiｓ　daughteｒ　aｌong the ｒoad. I suｐpose it was a very　pretty　example　of　the　trｉumph ｏｆ spirit over ｍaｔtｅｒ, and ｓｏ　my dｉgresｓion　hａs　at least tｈe　advantage　of ａ moral．
Liｔeｒａtｕrｅ Netｗｏrk »　William Somｅrset　Maughａm » Moｏn and Siｘpenｃｅ »　Chａpter XＬVＩ

Chaｐｔeｒ XLVＩI

I hａve tｒied to ｐuｔ ｓome connｅction ｉｎto　thｅ varioｕs　ｔhiｎgｓ Captain Nichoｌs toｌd ｍe ａbout Ｓｔrｉckland,　aｎd I heｒe set　thｅｍ ｄｏwn in ｔhe　besｔ ｏrder I can. They ｍade ｏnｅ anoｔhｅr’s acquaｉntaｎcｅ　dｕrinｇ　tｈe　ｌattｅr　paｒt　ｏｆ the wintｅｒ ｆollowｉｎｇ　my last　mｅetiｎg witｈ Stricklａnd　ｉｎ　Paｒis. Hoｗ ｈe　ｈad ｐassed ｔhe　iｎｔeｒveninｇ moｎthｓ I dｏ not know， ｂｕｔ　liｆｅ must have ｂeeｎ ｖery　hard,　ｆor　Captain　Nicｈolｓ saw　hｉm first in ｔhe Ａsiｌe de　Nuiｔ． There　was ａ stｒike at　Ｍarｓeilles　at　the ｔｉme, ａnd Sｔricklａｎd，　haviｎg ｃoｍe　to thｅ　eｎd of hｉs reｓouｒces， had aｐparenｔly found it　imposｓiｂlｅ tｏ　earｎ tｈe smalｌ sum he　ｎeedeｄ to keｅp body　ａnd sｏｕl tｏgeｔhｅr。
Thｅ　Asiｌe dｅ Nuｉt　is a large ｓｔｏne　bｕｉｌding　wｈere　paupeｒ aｎｄ vagabond mａy gｅt a bed　for　ａ　ｗｅｅｋ, proviｄed their　papers　ａｒe in orｄer　ａｎｄ thｅy ｃａn pｅｒsuade the　friars ｉｎ　cｈargｅ that ｔhey aｒe woｒkingｍｅｎ。 Cａptaｉｎ Ｎichoｌs noticed Sｔrickland fｏr his　size　ａｎd　hiｓ sｉngulaｒ ａppearance ａmong tｈe croｗd ｔhａｔ ｗａiteｄ　fｏｒ　ｔhe doorｓ tｏ ｏpｅｎ； ｔhey ｗaiteｄ lｉstlｅsslｙ,　soｍｅ　waｌkinｇ to and fｒｏ, some　lｅaｎing　againｓｔ ｔhe　wall，　ａnd　ｏthｅrs　seateｄ on tｈe　curb wiｔh thｅｉr ｆeeｔ in　the ｇutｔｅr; aｎd　whｅn　thｅy filed into　ｔhｅ ｏｆficｅ　ｈe ｈｅａrd　ｔhｅ　mｏｎk who ｒeａｄ ｈis　ｐapeｒs aｄdress ｈim in Ｅnｇlish。 Bｕt he dｉd ｎｏt hａvｅ a　cｈanｃe to ｓｐeaｋ　to hiｍ,　sｉnce,　aｓ　he　enｔereｄ　the coｍmｏｎ—room, a ｍoｎk ｃａｍｅ in wiｔh a huge Biｂｌe in his ａrms,　ｍｏunteｄ a　pulｐｉｔ　which　was aｔ　tｈe end of ｔhｅ　rooｍ, ａnd　bｅgaｎ the serｖice which the ｗrｅtcheｄ outcasts had ｔo endｕｒe ａs　the prｉｃe oｆ tｈｅiｒ loｄｇing。 Ｈe and Striｃkｌand weｒe aｓsigneｄ ｔo different ｒooms, and when, ｔhrown oｕt of ｂed at　five in thｅ mornｉng ｂy a stalwaｒt mｏnk, hｅ ｈａｄ mａde hｉs ｂed aｎｄ ｗashed his ｆaｃe,　Strickｌand had　alｒｅady ｄisappｅared。　Caｐtａin Nicｈols wａndeｒｅd about ｔhe streeｔｓ　for aｎ ｈour　oｆ bitter cｏld,　anｄ then　ｍａdｅ his　way ｔo the Place Ｖictｏr Gｅｌu， wheｒe　the sａｉｌoｒ—mｅn aｒe　wｏnｔ tｏ congregａtｅ。 Dozｉnｇ againｓt the pedｅstal　oｆ ａ ｓtａｔuｅ，　hｅ　ｓaw Sｔｒｉcklaｎd aｇain.　Ｈｅ gａve him ａ　kiｃk　ｔo awaｋeｎ him.
"Ｃomｅ　ａnd　ｈaｖe breakｆasｔ， matｅ，” ｈe said.
"Ｇo to ｈell," answered　Ｓｔrickland。
I recｏgnised　my frieｎd’s limitｅd voｃabｕｌarｙ, ａｎd Ｉ pｒｅpａｒed　to　regａrｄ Captain Ｎicholｓ　as a truｓtworthy　ｗｉtnｅsｓ.
”Buｓted?"　asked ｔｈe　Caｐｔaiｎ.
”Blast yoｕ，” ａnｓｗｅred Strｉcｋlaｎd
”Ｃｏme ａlｏng with me。 I’ll get　ｙou sｏme breａkfａｓt。"
Aｆtｅr ａ　mｏment＇ｓ　heｓitatioｎ，　Striｃkland scrambled ｔo　hiｓ　feet， and together ｔhey　wenｔ to ｔhe Boｕｃhｅe de　Paｉｎ， wｈｅｒe the　hｕngry　aｒe ｇiｖｅn ａ wedｇe oｆ bｒead， whicｈ ｔhey　muｓt eaｔ theｒe and then，　foｒ iｔ is forbidden ｔo take it away;　and thｅn to the Ｃuｉｌlｅrｅ de Ｓｏuｐe, where　ｆｏｒ a weeｋ, aｔ ｅleven　aｎd fｏｕｒ, you may　get a boｗl of thin, ｓalt ｓoｕp。 The　ｔｗo buildings aｒe　placed fａr apaｒt， ｓｏ thａt ｏnly　the stａｒviｎg shｏｕｌd ｂe　tempted ｔo make usｅ of ｔhem。　Ｓo they had brｅakfast, anｄ ｓo bｅｇａｎ thｅ　queer coｍpaｎｉonship of Ｃhａｒleｓ Strｉｃkland　ａnd Ｃaptain Nicholｓ.
Theｙ ｍｕsｔ ｈave ｓpｅnt　sometｈｉng　like four montｈs ａt Marseilles in ｏne anothｅｒ’s socｉety. Tｈeir carｅer ｗａs　dｅvoid　of advｅｎturｅ，　iｆ　by adveｎture　you ｍean unexpecteｄ or　thriｌlinｇ incident,　ｆｏr ｔheir daｙs ｗere occupied in ｔhe　pｕrsuit of enough mｏｎｅｙ　to gｅt a ｎight’s lodging　and ｓｕch ｆoｏd　as wｏuld stay　ｔhe ｐaｎgs ｏｆ ｈuｎger。 Ｂｕt I ｗish I coulｄ giｖe ｈere ｔhe piｃtｕreｓ， colｏurｅd　ａｎd racy, whｉｃh Capｔain Nichoｌs’ vｉvid ｎａｒｒaｔivｅ ｏffeｒｅd to　ｔhe iｍagｉnation。　His account of ｔheir ｄiscoｖeries ｉn ｔｈe loｗ　liｆe of a　seapｏｒt　tｏwｎ　would have made ａ　cｈarming book， aｎｄ ｉn ｔｈe varｉous charａcteｒs that caｍe　tｈeir wａy ｔhe stｕｄent mｉｇht easiｌy havｅ fｏund mattｅr　for a　verｙ comｐleｔｅ dicｔionａry　of　rogues． Ｂut Ｉ　must contｅnｔ myselｆ wｉｔh a ｆew pａraｇｒaphs。 I　ｒeceived　ｔhe ｉmpression　of ａ lｉfｅ ｉnｔｅnse　ａｎd　bｒutal, saｖａgｅ, muｌｔiｃoloured， ａnd　vivａcｉous。　It made ｔhｅ Mａrｓeilles that Ｉ ｋｎew,　geｓticulａtiｎg ａｎd ｓuｎny， ｗith iｔs comfｏｒtａble　hotels and its　reｓｔaｕrａｎtｓ cｒｏwded ｗitｈ　the ｗeｌl—to—do, ｔame　aｎd coｍmonpｌacｅ。 I envied ｍeｎ　ｗho had　ｓｅｅn　wiｔh ｔｈeir ｏwn eyes tｈe　siｇｈtｓ that Captain Nicholｓ describｅd。
Ｗheｎ　the ｄoors of the Asiｌe de　Nuit ｗere cｌosed to　them,　Strｉcｋｌand ａnd Captain Nichｏls　sｏｕgｈt　the　hospitaliｔy ｏf Tough Biｌl。 Thiｓ wａs　the ｍaster of　a saｉlorｓ＇ boａrｄing—hｏuｓe，　ａ hugｅ　muｌａｔto wiｔh ａ hｅavy　fisｔ, whｏ　ｇave　the　sｔranded　mariner　ｆｏｏd and sheｌtｅr till he foｕnd　hｉm a　ｂｅｒth。 Theｙ livｅｄ wiｔｈ hｉm ａ ｍoｎｔh,　sｌeeping wｉtｈ a doｚｅn ｏｔhers, Ｓwedｅs，　negrｏes, Ｂｒaziｌiaｎs,　oｎ ｔhe　floor　of ｔhｅ twｏ　bａrｅ rooms in hiｓ house　wｈicｈ　ｈｅ asｓｉgned to hiｓ chaｒges；　ａｎｄ eｖerｙ　day theｙ　wenｔ with him tｏ tｈe　Plaｃｅ Ｖiｃｔor Ｇelu, whｉthｅｒ came ｓｈｉps' ｃaｐtａins in search of　ａ man． Ｈe was　maｒｒied ｔo an　Aｍeｒicaｎ　wｏmaｎ， obese and slａｔｔernlｙ, fａllen　ｔo ｔhis ｐass ｂy Heaven ｋnows　ｗhat procｅss oｆ dｅgradａtiｏｎ, ａnd ｅvery ｄａｙ the boarｄers took it　iｎ turns to heｌp ｈer wｉth tｈe ｈousｅwork。 Captain Nicholｓ　loｏkeｄ upon　iｔ aｓ ａ smart piece of ｗork oｎ　Striｃklanｄ＇ｓ　part thaｔ hｅ hａd got oｕt　of tｈiｓ by ｐaｉntiｎg a poｒtｒait oｆ Tough Bｉll。 Touｇh　Bｉll not only paid fｏr the　caｎvas,　cｏlourｓ, and　brushes, ｂut gave　Stricklaｎｄ a　pｏuｎd ｏf sｍuggled tobａｃco　into the bargain。 Ｆｏｒ all I kｎｏw， this　ｐictｕｒe maｙ stiｌl ａｄorn　ｔhｅ　parｌoｕr oｆ thｅ　tｕmbledｏwｎ　litｔlｅ houｓｅ ｓomｅwｈｅre ｎear　thｅ Quａi de　ｌa Jolｉette，　and Ｉ　suppose　ｉｔ couｌd now be soｌd for fifteen ｈundreｄ pｏunds。 Strｉckｌand’s　ｉdeａ ｗas to ship on some　veｓseｌ bound for Aｕsｔralia　oｒ New　Zeａｌand，　anｄ　from　ｔheｒe maｋe ｈis　ｗａy tｏ Saｍoａ or Tahiti. I　do　not　know　ｈｏw ｈｅ hａd coｍe uｐｏn the ｎｏtｉoｎ of goinｇ to the South Sｅａｓ, though I　reｍember thaｔ hｉs imａｇiｎaｔion haｄ lonｇ beeｎ hａunted ｂy ａn isｌaｎd， alｌ gｒeen and ｓunny, ｅnciｒclｅd by a sea moｒe ｂlｕe thａn　is　foｕnd ｉn Norｔhｅrn　latiｔudｅs.　I supｐｏse　ｔｈat he cｌunｇ to　Captaｉn　Nｉchols becａuse hｅ wａs ａcquａinted　ｗiｔｈ tｈose partｓ, anｄ it wａs Ｃａptａin　Ｎiｃhｏｌs whｏ persｕaded hｉm ｔhat ｈe would　ｂe　ｍorｅ comｆortａblｅ ｉn　Tahｉti。
”You　sｅe， Taｈｉti’s　Ｆreｎch," he　ｅxｐlaiｎeｄ to　me.　”Ａｎd　ｔｈe Frｅｎｃh　ａren’t so ｄamned teｃhnｉcａl。"
I thoughｔ　I sａｗ ｈｉs point。
Strｉckland ｈａd nｏ　ｐａpeｒs, but thａt wａs ｎot ａ matｔer tｏ dｉsｃonceｒt Tｏｕｇh Biｌl　ｗhen　he　sａw a　profｉt (he took　tｈe ｆirsｔ month’s waｇes　of the saiｌor ｆor　whom he found　ａ berth）， and　hｅ　provｉｄｅd Strickｌand with ｔhｏse　ｏf aｎ　Enｇlｉsｈ ｓtokeｒ wｈo　haｄ ｐroｖｉdentially died　on hｉs ｈanｄs。 Ｂuｔ both Capｔaiｎ　Nichols anｄ　Sｔrickｌａnd　werｅ bound Eaｓt,　ａｎd it chanｃｅd that　thｅ only　oppｏrｔunitieｓ for sｉgｎiｎg oｎ were　wiｔh shipｓ sａilｉng Ｗesｔ。 Twiｃe　Striｃkland　rｅfused a bertｈ　oｎ ｔrampｓ sａilinｇ foｒ tｈe Unitｅｄ Stａｔｅs， and　onｃe oｎ a cｏllier going to　Newcastle。 Touｇｈ　Ｂiｌl haｄ ｎo paｔiencｅ wiｔh ａn oｂstiｎacy whｉch ｃould only　resuｌt in　loss　tｏ　ｈimself, and on the lａst ｏcｃasｉon ｈe fluｎg ｂoｔh Ｓｔｒｉckland ａnd Caｐtain　Ｎｉcｈolｓ ouｔ of　his ｈouse ｗitｈｏuｔ more ａdｏ。　Theｙ　fｏｕnd themselves once　mｏｒe ａdrｉft。
Tough　Bill＇s　fare　was ｓeldom extrａvａgaｎt, aｎd　yｏu rose ｆroｍ hiｓ table　almosｔ as hｕngrｙ as　yoｕ sat down,　but for some　ｄays tｈey ｈad good reａson　tｏ regret　it。 Ｔhｅy lｅａrned ｗｈａt hunger was。 Ｔhe　Cｕiｌｌere ｄｅ　Ｓｏｕｐｅ and tｈe Ａsｉle ｄe Nuｉt　were boｔｈ closeｄ tｏ　them， aｎd thｅiｒ　onｌy sｕｓtenaｎcｅ was ｔhｅ wedge of bｒeａd ｗhｉch the　Ｂouchｅe ｄｅ Pain ｐrovidｅd。 Ｔhｅy sleｐｔ whｅｒｅ they　could, soｍｅtiｍeｓ　in an　ｅmpty trucｋ ｏn a sｉdinｇ near　tｈe statｉｏn， sometimes　iｎ　a cａrｔ beｈinｄ a warehｏuse; but it was biｔtｅrlｙ cold, and ａｆｔer ａn houｒ　or　two of uneasy　dozｉng　thｅｙ ｗｏｕlｄ trａmp the　streetｓ　ａgaiｎ． What they ｆelt ｔhｅ　lacｋ of mｏsｔ　bitteｒｌy was tobａcco，　and Cａｐtain Nｉchoｌs， for hｉｓ paｒt, could　nｏt　do　wｉthout it; he ｔｏok ｔo ｈunting tｈｅ ＂Ｃaｎ　o’ Beer,” ｆor cｉｇａrette—endｓ　anｄ the　butｔ—enｄ　ｏｆ ciｇars which the pｒomenaｄerｓ of thｅ　niｇhｔ　beforｅ　ｈaｄ thrown ａｗaｙ。
”Ｉ’ve tasteｄ woｒsｅ ｓmoｋｉng　mｉxtuｒeｓ　in a pｉpe,” he added，　wｉｔｈ a philoｓophic　shrug oｆ his shoulders， as　he took ａ couple of ciｇaｒs froｍ ｔhe cａse Ｉ ｏｆfered hｉｍ， pｕｔｔing oｎe　iｎ his　mｏutｈ ａnd　the ｏｔｈer in hｉs ｐｏｃket。
Nｏw and ｔhｅn ｔ