英文
CHAPTER XVII
Martin learned to do many things. In the course of the first week, in one afternoon, he and Joe accounted for the two hundred white shirts. Joe ran the tiler, a machine wherein a hot iron was hooked on a steel string which furnished the pressure. By this means he ironed the yoke, wristbands, and neckband, setting the latter at right angles to the shirt, and put the glossy finish on the bosom. As fast as he finished them, he flung the shirts on a rack between him and Martin, who caught them up and “backed” them. This task consisted of ironing all the unstarched portions of the shirts.
It was exhausting work, carried on, hour after hour, at top speed. Out on the broad verandas of the hotel, men and women, in cool white, sipped iced drinks and kept their circulation down. But in the laundry the air was sizzling. The huge stove roared red hot and white hot, while the irons, moving over the damp cloth, sent up clouds of steam. The heat of these irons was different from that used by housewives. An iron that stood the ordinary test of a wet finger was too cold for Joe and Martin, and such test was useless. They went wholly by holding the irons close to their cheeks, gauging the heat by some secret mental process that Martin admired but could not understand. When the fresh irons proved too hot, they hooked them on iron rods and dipped them into cold water. This again required a precise and subtle judgment. A fraction of a second too long in the water and the fine and silken edge of the proper heat was lost, and Martin found time to marvel at the accuracy he developed—an automatic accuracy, founded upon criteria that were machine-like and unerring.
But there was little time in which to marvel. All Martin’s consciousness was concentrated in the work. Ceaselessly active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence. There was no room in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed. The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame. And even as his hurrying soul tossed, it was reaching for another shirt. This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead California sun. But there was no swooning in that superheated room. The cool guests on the verandas needed clean linen.
The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water, but so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the water sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his pores. Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed had given him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of the ship had been lord of Martin’s time; but here the manager of the hotel was lord of Martin’s thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save for the nerve-racking, body-destroying toil. Outside of that it was impossible to think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.
“This is hell, ain’t it?” Joe remarked once.
Martin nodded, but felt a rasp of irritation. The statement had been obvious and unnecessary. They did not talk while they worked. Conversation threw them out of their stride, as it did this time, compelling Martin to miss a stroke of his iron and to make two extra motions before he caught his stride again.
On Friday morning the washer ran. Twice a week they had to put through hotel linen,—the sheets, pillow-slips, spreads, table-cloths, and napkins. This finished, they buckled down to “fancy starch.” It was slow work, fastidious and delicate, and Martin did not learn it so readily. Besides, he could not take chances. Mistakes were disastrous.
“See that,” Joe said, holding up a filmy corset-cover that he could have crumpled from view in one hand. “Scorch that an’ it’s twenty dollars out of your wages.”
So Martin did not scorch that, and eased down on his muscular tension,though nervous tension rose higher than ever, and he listened sympathetically to the other’s blasphemies as he toiled and suffered over the beautiful things that women wear when they do not have to do their own laundrying. “Fancy starch” was Martin’s nightmare, and it was Joe’s, too. It was “fancy starch”that robbed them of their hard-won minutes. They toiled at it all day. At seven in the evening they broke off to run the hotel linen through the mangle. At ten o’clock, while the hotel guests slept, the two laundrymen sweated on at “fancy starch” till midnight, till one, till two. At half-past two they knocked off.
Saturday morning it was “fancy starch,” and odds and ends, and at three in the afternoon the week’s work was done.
“You ain’t a-goin’ to ride them seventy miles into Oakland on top of this?” Joe demanded, as they sat on the stairs and took a triumphant smoke.
“Got to,” was the answer.
“What are you goin’ for?—a girl?”
“No; to save two and a half on the railroad ticket. I want to renew some books at the library.”
“Why don’t you send ’em down an’ up by express? That’ll cost only a quarter each way.”
Martin considered it.
“An’ take a rest tomorrow,” the other urged. “You need it. I know I do. I’m plumb tuckered out.”
He looked it. Indomitable, never resting, fighting for seconds and minutes all week, circumventing delays and crushing down obstacles, a fount of resistless energy, a high-driven human motor, a demon for work, now that he had accomplished the week’s task he was in a state of collapse. He was worn and haggard, and his handsome face drooped in lean exhaustion. He pulled his cigarette spiritlessly, and his voice was peculiarly dead and monotonous. All the snap and fire had gone out of him. His triumph seemed a sorry one.
“An’ next week we got to do it all over again,” he said sadly. “An’ what’s the good of it all, hey? Sometimes I wish I was a hobo. They don’t work, an’ they get their livin’. Gee! I wish I had a glass of beer; but I can’t get up the gumption to go down to the village an’ get it. You’ll stay over, an’ send your books dawn by express, or else you’re a damn fool.”
“But what can I do here all day Sunday?” Martin asked.
“Rest. You don’t know how tired you are. Why, I’m that tired Sunday I can’t even read the papers. I was sick once—typhoid. In the hospital two months an’ a half. Didn’t do a tap of work all that time. It was beautiful.”
“It was beautiful,” he repeated dreamily, a minute later.
Martin took a bath, after which he found that the head laundryman had disappeared. Most likely he had gone for a glass of beer Martin decided, but the half-mile walk down to the village to find out seemed a long journey to him. He lay on his bed with his shoes off, trying to make up his mind. He did not reach out for a book. He was too tired to feel sleepy, and he lay, scarcely thinking, in a semi-stupor of weariness, until it was time for supper. Joe did not appear for that function, and when Martin heard the gardener remark that most likely he was ripping the slats off the bar, Martin understood. He went to bed immediately afterward, and in the morning decided that he was greatly rested. Joe being still absent, Martin procured a Sunday paper and lay down in a shady nook under the trees. The morning passed, he knew not how. He did not sleep, nobody disturbed him, and he did not finish the paper. He came back to it in the afternoon, after dinner, and fell asleep over it.
So passed Sunday, and Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting clothes, while Joe, a towel bound tightly around his head, with groans and blasphemies, was running the washer and mixing soft-soap.
“I simply can’t help it,” he explained. “I got to drink when Saturday night comes around.”
Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget. Martin’s Sunday was the same as before. He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, thinking nothing. He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that he did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no ray of light. He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come.
A third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his “Sea Lyrics” by mail. He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and she could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were failures, and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and unenthusiastic line of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly convinced of it as he read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible. He would have burned the “Sea Lyrics” on the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them aflame. There was the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to the furnace was not worthwhile. All his exertion was used in washing other persons’ clothes. He did not have any left for private affairs.
He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and answer Ruth’s letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. “I guess I’ll go down and see how Joe’s getting on,” was the way he put it to himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in spite of himself as he neared the saloon.
“I thought you was on the water-wagon,” was Joe’s greeting.
Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.
“Don’t take all night about it,” he said roughly.
The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.
“Now, I can wait for you,” he said grimly, “but hurry up.”
Joe hurried, and they drank together.
“The work did it, eh?” Joe queried.
Martin refused to discuss the matter.
“It’s fair hell, I know,” the other went on, “but I kind of hate to see you come off the wagon, Mart. Well, here’s how!”
Martin drank on silently, biting out his orders and invitations and awing the barkeeper, an effeminate country youngster with watery blue eyes and hair parted in the middle.
“It’s something scandalous the way they work us poor devils,” Joe was remarking. “If I didn’t bowl up, I’d break loose an’ burn down the shebang. My bowlin’ up is all that saves ’em, I can tell you that.”
But Martin made no answer. A few more drinks, and in his brain he felt the maggots of intoxication beginning to crawl. Ah, it was living, the first breath of life he had breathed in three weeks. His dreams came back to him. Fancy came out of the darkened room and lured him on, a thing of flaming brightness. His mirror of vision was silver-clear, a flashing, dazzling palimpsest of imagery. Wonder and beauty walked with him, hand in hand, and all power was his. He tried to tell it to Joe, but Joe had visions of his own, infallible schemes whereby he would escape the slavery of laundry-work and become himself the owner of a great steam laundry.
“I tell yeh, Mart, they won’t be no kids workin’ in my laundry—not on yer life. An’ they won’t be no workin’ a livin’ soul after six P. M. You hear me talk! They’ll be machinery enough an’ hands enough to do it all in decent workin’ hours, an’ Mart, s’help me, I’ll make yeh superintendent of the shebang—the whole of it, all of it. Now here’s the scheme. I get on the water-wagon an’ save my money for two years—save an’ then—”
But Martin turned away, leaving him to tell it to the barkeeper, until that worthy was called away to furnish drinks to two farmers who, coming in, accepted Martin’s invitation. Martin dispensed royal largesse, inviting everybody up, farm-hands, a stableman, and the gardener’s assistant from the hotel, the barkeeper, and the furtive hobo who slid in like a shadow and like a shadow hovered at the end of the bar.
中文
第十七章
马丁学会了干许多活。头个星期的一天下午，他和乔一起熨烫二百件白衬衫。乔操纵熨衣机，这种机器里有一只钩在一根钢丝上的热熨斗，而钢丝的作用是提供压力。用这种工具，他又是烫抵肩和袖口又是熨领子，使领子和衣身形成一定的角度，最后再把前襟熨得平平展展。一熨好，他就把衬衫扔到他和马丁之间的一个架子上，由马丁拿去“复熨”。马丁的这项工作是熨烫未上浆的所有部位。
这是件耗人体力的工作，以极高的速度一个钟点一个钟点地持续着。在外边，旅馆宽敞的阳台上，一些男女穿着凉爽的白衣服，呷着冰镇饮料，保持着正常的体温。可是在洗衣房里，空气却热得发烫。大火炉子呼呼吐出火红和白热的火焰，熨斗在湿布上移来移去，散发出如云似雾的水蒸气。这些熨斗的热度与家庭妇女所用的是不一样的。通常用湿指头测其温度的熨斗对乔和马丁来说就太凉了，所以这样的测试是无用的。他们把熨斗拿起来靠近脸颊，完全靠某种玄妙的心理活动测试温度，对此马丁很是欣赏，可就是弄不明白其中的道理。当刚热好的熨斗太烫的时候，他们就把熨斗挂到铁棒上，浸泡到冷水里去。这也需要精确而微妙的判断力。在水中哪怕多泡几分之一秒，那不太冷不太热恰到好处的温度就会消失。马丁感到惊奇的是，自己竟能达到如此高的精确度——这是一种无意识的精确度，所依据的准则似机械般万无一失。
可是，马丁没有时间去赞叹，他的全部精力都集中到了工作上。他一刻不停地干着活，头脑并用，活像一台智能机器，而提供这种智能的是他的全部身心。他的大脑里没有余地可以容纳宇宙以及宇宙间的重大问题，那儿的所有宽阔的通道都已关闭，封得严严实实。他心里的回音堂变成了斗室和控制塔，只知道操纵他的胳膊、肩上的肌肉和灵巧的十指去移动熨斗——那熨斗来去如飞、上下舞动，精确得不多不少、不远不近，身后留下团团水蒸气；他永无休止地熨着衬衫的袖子、腰身、后背和后摆，熨好一件就扔到架子上，一点皱襞也不起。他心情急切，扔着第一件的当儿，就去取第二件。这样的工作一个钟点又一个钟点地连绵不断。加利福尼亚的太阳顶头高照，外面的整个世界都昏昏欲睡，而这间闷热难熬的房子里却没有人昏睡，因为阳台上的那些乘凉的客人需要穿干净的衣服。
马丁汗如雨下。他喝了大量的水，可是由于天气太热、用力太猛，他体内的水分从每个毛孔不停地朝外泄。在海上作业的时候，少数情况除外，他总是有许多时间思考问题。船主仅仅支配马丁的时间；可是在这儿，旅馆的经理不仅支配马丁的时间，还支配他的思想。他万念俱空，除了这折磨精神，摧残肉体的苦活，什么都不想，而且也不可能去想。他忘掉了自己在爱着露丝，她甚至压根就不存在，因为他那颗受人驱使的心无暇想到她。只有夜间爬到床上，或早晨用餐的时候，他才会想到她，但这种回忆转瞬即逝。
“这儿是地狱，对吗？”有一次，乔这样说道。
马丁点了点头，可是心里却感到一阵恼怒。这句话是无可非议的，就是有点多余。他们干活时是不讲话的，因为一讲话会打乱他们的步调。譬如，这一次马丁就少熨了一下，他只好又补熨了两下才赶上了原来的步调。
星期五上午，洗衣机开动了。每星期两次，他们得洗旅馆里的亚麻织物——被单、枕套、被罩、桌布和餐巾。洗完这些，他们又接着认认真真地开始对付“高档服装”。干这活可快不成，既讲究又细致，马丁学来着实不容易。再说，他可不能鲁莽行事，一出错就会造成灾难。
“你瞧，”乔拎起一件薄如蝉翼、团在手心里就可以让人看不见的紧身胸衣，说道，“要是把这玩意儿熨糊了，就得扣你二十块钱的工钱。”
所以，马丁没有把衣服熨糊。他放松了紧绷的肌肉，可精神却空前紧张起来，艰难而痛苦地熨着那些无须自己洗衣的女人们所穿的漂亮玩意儿，一边同情地听乔在那儿骂骂咧咧。“高档服装”给马丁带来了噩梦，也给乔带来了噩梦。正是这种“高档服装”剥削走了他们辛辛苦苦节省下的时间，使他们终日劳作。傍晚七点钟，他们停下手中的活，把旅馆里的亚麻织物送入轧液机。十点钟，当旅馆客人入睡时，这两位洗衣工又继续汗流浃背地熨“高档服装”，直至午夜一点钟，两点钟。干到两点半钟，他们才歇工。
星期六上午又穷于应付“高档服装”和一些零碎的小玩意儿，下午三点钟这一星期的活才算干完。
“这么累了，你不会又要骑车赶七十英里的路跑到奥克兰去吧？”当他们坐到楼梯上，悠然自得抽烟的时候，乔问道。
“我得去。”马丁回答。
“图什么呢？——去追求姑娘？”
“不是。是为了节省两块半钱的火车票。我想到图书馆续借几本书。”
“为什么不用快件把书寄去，再求他们寄来呢？来去都只花两角五分钱。”
马丁考虑着他的建议。
“明天休息一下，”对方劝告道，“你需要休息，我知道我也需要。我简直累得要死。”
他的确是倦容满面。他一往无前，未有过片刻的休息，一星期来争分夺秒，避免了种种耽搁，摧毁了道道险障，活似不可抗拒的力量源泉和开足马力的肉体机器，工作时显示出超人的精力。现在，一星期的任务已经完成，他却处于崩溃的境地。他疲倦、憔悴，一张英俊的面孔累得颓萎不振。他无精打采地抽着烟，声音出奇地单调和死气沉沉。他体内的活力和生气消逝得无影无踪。他的胜利看来是场凄惨的胜利。
“下星期还得从头干，”他忧郁地说，“唉，累死累活有什么用呢？有时候真想当个流浪汉，因为他们不用干活，照样可以活下去。老天！多么希望能有杯啤酒喝，可就是打不起精神到村里去买。你最好留下来养精蓄锐，把书邮寄过去，不然你就太傻啦。”
“星期天在这儿待一天，能干什么呢？”马丁问。
“休息。你意识不到你有多疲倦。唉，一到星期天我就累散了架，连报纸也看不进去。有一次我染上了伤寒，在医院里躺了两个半月，一点活也不干。那滋味真是美。”
“真是美啊！”隔了一小会儿，他又做梦似的重复了一遍。
马丁洗了个澡，出来却发现洗衣工头不见了踪影，心想他八成去喝酒了，可是要到村里找他得走半英里的路，未免太远了些。他脱掉鞋躺到床上，想集中一下思想。他没有伸手取书看，累得连睡意也没有了，而只是昏昏沉沉躺在那儿，几乎什么也不想，一直到吃晚饭的时候。乔没回来吃饭，马丁听花匠说他很可能是到酒吧痛饮去了，这才明白了过来。吃完饭他就上床睡觉了，第二天早晨觉得体力已大大恢复。此时，乔仍未归来。马丁拿上一份星期日报纸，找块树荫躺了下来。于不知不觉之中，一上午的时间都过去了。他没有睡着，也无人来打扰，可他连一份报纸也没看完。吃过饭后，他下午又回到原地看报，看着看着就睡着了。
星期天就这么打发掉了。星期一早晨，他又开始苦干，忙着对衣服进行分类，而乔把一条毛巾紧缠在头上，哼哼唧唧、骂骂咧咧地又是操纵洗衣机又是调制软皂。
“我简直克制不住自己，”他解释说，“一到星期六的晚上，就得一醉方休。”
又一个星期过去了。他们天天晚上都鏖战于电灯之下，这场恶战一直持续到星期六下午三点钟才宣告结束。此时的乔仅仅短暂地品尝一下苦涩的胜利滋味，便又溜到村里借酒浇愁了。马丁的星期天过得一如以往。他躺在树荫下漫无目的地胡乱看着报，仰面朝天躺在那儿，一待就是好几个小时，什么也不干什么也不想。他头脑昏昏沉沉，思考不成问题，但心里却明白他并不喜欢自己的这个样子。他自我厌恶，仿佛他已经堕落，或者原本就是个混蛋。他心里所有的神圣观念都化为乌有，勃勃雄心变成了麻木不仁；他已经丧失了所有的活力去感受雄心的跳动。他死了。他的灵魂似乎死了。他是一头畜生，一条干活的牲口。在他的眼里，绿色的树叶间洒下的阳光失去了美感，蔚蓝色的天空不再像以前那样对他窃窃私语，向他描绘浩瀚的宇宙和急切地吐露秘密。生活枯燥乏味得令人无法忍受，含到嘴里是苦涩的味道。他心里的明镜蒙上了一层黑布，而幻想则躺在一间不透光线的昏暗病房里。他羡慕乔，因为乔可以毫无顾忌地跑到村里的酒吧间畅饮，任大脑胡思乱想，发发伤感的感慨，痛痛快快、欢欢喜喜喝个酩酊大醉，忘掉星期一，忘掉下个星期那叫人死去活来的苦活。
第三个星期过去了；马丁憎恨自己，也憎恨生活。一种失败的感觉在左右着他。那些编辑冷落他的作品，是有原因的。这些他现在看得一清二楚，于是不禁嘲笑自己，嘲笑自己曾经怀有的梦想。露丝把《海洋抒情诗》寄还给了他。他冷淡漠然地看了她的来信。她竭力声明自己是多么喜欢这些诗，说这些诗写得非常美。可是她不会撒谎，掩饰不住内心的真实看法。在她看来，这些诗是失败之作，从她的信中每一句敷衍和淡漠的话里他都可以瞧出她的不满。按说，她是没有错的。他把这些诗又重新看了一遍，对这一点深信不疑。他已经失去了美感和幻想，而今重温诗句，禁不住纳闷起来，不知自己当初创作的时候心里想的是什么。那些大胆的词语现在读起来显得荒诞不经，巧妙的措辞显得滑稽可笑，一切都是那样荒唐、不真实和无法思议。他恨不得立时就把《海洋抒情诗》付之一炬，只是他缺乏这样的强烈愿望。引擎机房就在那儿，可是要把诗稿拿去投入火炉却有些得不偿失，因为他的全部气力都用于为别人洗衣服了，已没有丝毫的精力干私事。
他决定待到星期天，自己将打起精神给露丝回封信。然而星期六下午一干完活，他洗了个澡，就涌起了忘掉一切的欲望。“我想还是去看看乔的情况吧，”他这样对自己说；话一出口，他就知道自己在扯谎。不过，他没有精力考虑这是否谎话；即便有精力，他也不愿考虑，因为他想忘掉一切。他慢吞吞信步朝村里走去，接近酒吧时，脚下不由自主加快了步伐。
“我原以为你戒酒了呢。”乔招呼他道。
马丁不屑辩白，而是要了瓶威士忌，为自己斟满一杯，然后把瓶子递给了对方。
“别净扯这些。”他粗鲁地说。
对方斟酒时慢慢悠悠，马丁等不及，便把杯里的酒一口饮干，又斟了一杯。
“这一杯可以等等你，”他冷冰冰地说，“不过，请你放快点。”
乔连忙为自己斟上酒，二人对饮起来。
“干这样的活叫你开了戒，是吗？”乔问道。
马丁不愿讨论这个问题。
“这儿是活地狱，我心里清楚，”对方继续说道，“但我不愿看到你大开酒戒，马特。算啦，让我敬你一杯！”
马丁默不作声只顾喝酒，把自己要的酒以及对方请的酒都一杯杯饮干，使那位长着一双水汪汪的蓝眼睛、梳着中分头的女里女气的乡下年轻招待肃然起敬。
“他们逼着咱们这些可怜人拼命干活，实在是可恶，”乔说道，“要是没酒做伴，我准会失去控制，把那地方放火烧掉，告诉你，多亏有了酒，才使他们幸免于难。”
马丁没搭腔，又喝了几杯，有些陶陶欲醉，觉得有些小虫在脑子里爬来爬去。啊，这才是生活！三个星期来，他第一次呼吸到了生活的气息。美梦又重新出现，而幻想步出昏暗的病房，似一团灿烂夺目的火球，诱引他前行。他心里的那面镜子洁净如洗，宛若一尊光芒四射、令人眼花缭乱的铜像。奇迹和美感与他携手并进，把力量注入他的全身。他想把这情形讲给乔听，可是乔也沉湎于幻想，勾画着自己的宏伟蓝图——摆脱奴役般的洗衣苦活，开一家大规模的蒸汽洗衣店，自己当老板。
“告诉你，马特，我的洗衣店不雇童工——绝对不雇。下午六点钟一过，所有的人都停止工作。你听我说！我的店里机器多，人手也多，正常的上班时间就能把活干完。说真的，马特，我要任命你为洗衣店的总管，所有的一切都听命于你。你听听我的计划。我要把酒戒掉，攒上两年的钱——有了钱就——”
可是马丁把身子转了过去，丢下他把心里的话向那位招待倾吐。后来，那位招待也受到马丁的支使，去为两位刚进门的庄稼汉取酒。马丁慷慨解囊，请大家一道痛饮，其中有几位庄稼汉、一个马夫、旅馆里的花匠助手、酒吧招待，还有一个似幽灵般溜进来又似幽灵般在酒吧间的一端转来转去的流浪汉。
