《错箱记 The Wrong Box(双语经典)》Epub-Pdf-Mobi-Txt-Azw3 下载在线阅读

罗伯特·路易斯·史蒂文森 & 劳埃德·奥斯本

7.8(28人评价)

 

摩立斯与约翰为了得到二伯父的一笔养老金，便把他看管起来，望他长寿。二伯父约瑟夫却受不了这拘束生活，趁一次火车出事之机逃之夭夭，摩立斯兄弟误认了一具尸体，认为二伯父已死，便将尸体装入一只大木桶运回家去，企图封锁消息，制造二伯父未死的假想。谁知尸体在运送途中被人调换，在不同的人手里推来送去，加之摩立斯的堂兄从中作祟，演出了一幕幕令人绝倒的笑剧，结出了一个出人意外的结局……

epubooks.top站是一个下载优质电子书的网站，书籍种类非常多，每个类目下的书籍资源都非常丰富，支持kindle、epub、mobi、azw3、pdf格式下载。以及在线阅读-epub,kindle,mobi,azw3,pdf格式！ 一個下載優質電子書的網站，書籍種類非常多，每個類目下的書籍資源都非常豐富，支持kindle、epub、mobi、azw3、pdf格式下載。以及在線閱讀-epub,kindle,mobi,azw3,pdf格式！ ======================================================= 记得收藏本站哟！每天都会更新 资源收集不易，还请帮忙点一点，是我的动力谢谢！！！！！！！！！！ 如果有什么书本站没有，你也可以在评论处留言。我会第一时间去的！ 收藏本站每日更新更多书籍！ 资源地址： Epub版-----网盘密码1122 MOBI版-----网盘密码1122 PDF版------网盘密码1122 TxT版------网盘密码1122 azw3版------网盘密码1122 ======================================================= 部分简介：

And now curiosity began to stir, and he sat up and looked about him. The track at this point ran in a sharp curve about a wooded hillock; all of the near side was heaped with the wreckage of the Bournemouth train; that of the express was mostly hidden by the trees; and just at the turn, under clouds of vomiting steam and piled about with cairns of living coal, lay what remained of the two engines, one upon the other. On the heathy margin of the line were many people running to and fro, and crying aloud as they ran, and many others lying motionless like sleeping tramps. Morris suddenly drew an inference. “There has been an accident,” thought he, and was elated at his perspicacity. Almost at the same time his eye lighted on John, who lay close by as white as paper. “Poor old John! Poor old cove!” he thought, the schoolboy expression popping forth from some forgotten treasury, and he took his brother’s hand in his with childish tenderness. It was perhaps the touch that recalled him; at least John opened his eyes, sat suddenly up, and after several ineffectual movements of his lips, “What’s the row?” said he, in a phantom voice. The din of that devil’s smithy still thundered in their ears. “Let us get away from that,” Morris cried, and pointed to the vomit of steam that still spouted from the broken engines. And the pair helped each other up, and stood and quaked and wavered and stared about them at the scene of death. Just then they were approached by a party of men who had already organized themselves for the purposes of rescue. “Are you hurt?” cried one of these, a young fellow with the sweat streaming down his pallid face, and who, by the way he was treated, was evidently the doctor. Morris shook his head, and the young man, nodding grimly, handed him a bottle of some spirit. “Take a drink of that,” he said; “your friend looks as if he needed it badly. We want every man we can get,” he added; “there’s terrible work before us, and nobody should shirk. If you can do no more, you can carry a stretcher.” The doctor was hardly gone before Morris, under the spur of the dram, awoke to the full possession of his wits. “My God!” he cried. “Uncle Joseph!” “Yes,” said John, “where can he be? He can’t be far off. I hope the old party isn’t damaged.”“Come and help me to look,” said Morris, with a snap of savage determination strangely foreign to his ordinary bearing; and then, for one moment, he broke forth. “If he’s dead!” he cried, and shook his fist at heaven. To and fro the brothers hurried, staring in the faces of the wounded, or turning the dead upon their backs. They must have thus examined forty people, and still there was no word of Uncle Joseph. But now the course of their search brought them near the centre of the collision, where the boilers were still blowing off steam with a deafening clamour. It was a part of the field not yet gleaned by the rescuing party. The ground, especially on the margin of the wood, was full of inequalities—here a pit, there a hillock surmounted with a bush of furze. It was a place where many bodies might lie concealed, and they beat it like pointers after game. Suddenly Morris, who was leading, paused and reached forth his index with a tragic gesture. John followed the direction of his brother’s hand. In the bottom of a sandy hole lay something that had once been human. The face had suffered severely, and it was unrecognizable; but that was not required. The snowy hair, the coat of marten, the ventilating cloth, the hygienic flannel—everything down to the health boots from Messrs Dail and Crumbie’s, identified the body as that of Uncle Joseph. Only the forage cap must have been lost in the convulsion, for the dead man was bareheaded. “The poor old beggar!” said John, with a touch of natural feeling; “I would give ten pounds if we hadn’t chivvied him in the train!” But there was no sentiment in the face of Morris as he gazed upon the dead. Gnawing his nails, with introverted eyes, his brow marked with the stamp of tragic indignation and tragic intellectual effort, he stood there silent. Here was a last injustice; he had been robbed while he was an orphan at school, he had been lashed to a decadent leather business, he had been saddled with Miss Hazeltine, his cousin had been defrauding him of the tontine, and he had borne all this, we might almost say, with dignity, and now they had gone and killed his uncle! “Here!” he said suddenly, “take his heels, we must get him into the woods. I’m not going to have anybody find this.” “O, fudge!” said John, “where’s the use?” “Do what I tell you,” spirted Morris, as he took the corpse by the shoulders. “Am I to carry him myself?” They were close upon the borders of the wood; in ten or twelve paces they were under cover; and a little further back, in a sandy clearing of the trees, they laid their burthen down, and stood and looked at it with loathing. “What do you mean to do?” whispered John. “Bury him, to be sure,” responded Morris, and he opened his pocket-knife and began feverishly to dig. “You’ll never make a hand of it with that,” objected the other. “If you won’t help me, you cowardly shirk,” screamed Morris, “you can go to the devil!” “It’s the childishest folly,” said John; “but no man shall call me a coward,” and he began to help his brother grudgingly. The soil was sandy and light, but matted with the roots of the surrounding firs. Gorse tore their hands; and as they baled the sand from the grave, it was often discoloured with their blood. An hour passed of unremitting energy upon the part of Morris, of lukewarm help on that of John; and still the trench was barely nine inches in depth. Into this the body was rudely flung; sand was piled upon it, and then more sand must be dug, and gorse had to be cut to pile on that; and still from one end of the sordid mound a pair of feet projected and caught the light upon their patent-leather toes. But by this time the nerves of both were shaken; even Morris had enough of his grisly task; and they skulked off like animals into the thickest of the neighbouring covert. “It’s the best that we can do,” said Morris, sitting down. “And now,” said John, “perhaps you’ll have the politeness to tell me what it’s all about.” “Upon my word,” cried Morris, “if you do not understand for yourself, I almost despair of telling you.” “O, of course it’s some rot about the tontine,” returned the other. “But it’s the merest nonsense. We’ve lost it, and there’s an end.” “I tell you,” said Morris, “Uncle Masterman is dead. I know it, there’s a voice that tells me so.”“Well, and so is Uncle Joseph,” said John. “He’s not dead, unless I choose,” returned Morris. “And come to that,” cried John, “if you’re right, and Uncle Masterman’s been dead ever so long, all we have to do is to tell the truth and expose Michael.” “You seem to think Michael is a fool,” sneered Morris. “Can’t you understand he’s been preparing this fraud for years? He has the whole thing ready: the nurse, the doctor, the undertaker, all bought, the certificate all ready but the date! Let him get wind of this business, and you mark my words, Uncle Masterman will die in two days and be buried in a week. But see here, Johnny; what Michael can do, I can do. If he plays a game of bluff, so can I. If his father is to live forever, by God, so shall my uncle!” “It’s illegal, ain’t it?” said John. “A man must have SOME moral courage,” replied Morris with dignity. “And then suppose you’re wrong? Suppose Uncle Masterman’s alive and kicking?” “Well, even then,” responded the plotter, “we are no worse off than we were before; in fact, we’re better. Uncle Masterman must die some day; as long as Uncle Joseph was alive, he might have died any day; but we’re out of all that trouble now: there’s no sort of limit to the game that I propose—it can be kept up till Kingdom Come.” “If I could only see how you meant to set about it,” sighed John. “But you know, Morris, you always were such a bungler.” “I’d like to know what I ever bungled,” cried Morris; “I have the best collection of signet rings in London.” “Well, you know, there’s the leather business,” suggested the other. “That’s considered rather a hash.” It was a mark of singular self-control in Morris that he suffered this to pass unchallenged, and even unresented. “About the business in hand,” said he, “once we can get him up to Bloomsbury, there’s no sort of trouble. We bury him in the cellar, which seems made for it; and then all I have to do is to start out and find a venal doctor.” “Why can’t we leave him where he is?” asked John. “Because we know nothing about the country,” retorted Morris. “This wood may be a regular lovers’walk. Turn your mind to the real difficulty. How are we to get him up to Bloomsbury?” Various schemes were mooted and rejected. The railway station at Browndean was, of course, out of the question, for it would now be a centre of curiosity and gossip, and (of all things) they would be least able to dispatch a dead body without remark. John feebly proposed getting an ale-cask and sending it as beer, but the objections to this course were so overwhelming that Morris scorned to answer. The purchase of a packing-case seemed equally hopeless, for why should two gentlemen without baggage of any kind require a packing-case? They would be more likely to require clean linen. “We are working on wrong lines,” cried Morris at last. “The thing must be gone about more carefully. Suppose now,” he added excitedly, speaking by fits and starts, as if he were thinking aloud, “suppose we rent a cottage by the month. A householder can buy a packing-case without remark. Then suppose we clear the people out today, get the packing-case tonight, and tomorrow I hire a carriage or a cart that we could drive ourselves—and take the box, or whatever we get, to Ringwood or Lyndhurst or somewhere; we could label it‘specimens,’ don’t you see? Johnny, I believe I’ve hit the nail at last.” “Well, it sounds more feasible,” admitted John. “Of course we must take assumed names,” continued Morris. “It would never do to keep our own. What do you say to‘Masterman’itself? It sounds quiet and dignified.” “I will NOT take the name of Masterman,” returned his brother; “you may, if you like. I shall call myself Vance—the Great Vance; positively the last six nights. There’s some go in a name like that.”“Vance?” cried Morris. “Do you think we are playing a pantomime for our amusement? There was never anybody named Vance who wasn’t a music-hall singer.” “That’s the beauty of it,” returned John; “it gives you some standing at once. You may call yourself Fortescue till all’s blue, and nobody cares; but to be Vance gives a man a natural nobility.”“But there’s lots of other theatrical names,” cried Morris. “Leybourne, Irving, Brough, Toole—”“Devil a one will I take!” returned his brother. “I am going to have my little lark out of this as well as you.” “Very well,” said Morris, who perceived that John was determined to carry his point, “I shall be Robert Vance.” “And I shall be George Vance,” cried John, “the only original George Vance! Rally round the only original!” Repairing as well as they were able the disorder of their clothes, the Finsbury brothers returned to Browndean by a circuitous route in quest of luncheon and a suitable cottage. It is not always easy to drop at a moment’s notice on a furnished residence in a retired locality; but fortune presently introduced our adventurers to a deaf carpenter, a man rich in cottages of the required description, and unaffectedly eager to supply their wants. The second place they visited, standing, as it did, about a mile and a half from any neighbours, caused them to exchange a glance of hope. On a nearer view, the place was not without depressing features. It stood in a marshy-looking hollow of a heath; tall trees obscured its windows; the thatch visibly rotted on the rafters; and the walls were stained with splashes of unwholesome green. The rooms were small, the ceilings low, the furniture merely nominal; a strange chill and a haunting smell of damp pervaded the kitchen; and the bedroom boasted only of one bed. Morris, with a view to cheapening the place, remarked on this defect. “Well,” returned the man; “if you can’t sleep two abed, you’d better take a villa residence.”“And then,” pursued Morris, “there’s no water. How do you get your water?” “We fill THAT from the spring,” replied the carpenter, pointing to a big barrel that stood beside the door. “The spring ain’t so VERY far off, after all, and it’s easy brought in buckets. There’s a bucket there.” Morris nudged his brother as they examined the water-butt. It was new, and very solidly constructed for its office. If anything had been wanting to decide them, this eminently practical barrel would have turned the scale. A bargain was promptly struck, the month’s rent was paid upon the nail, and about an hour later the Finsbury brothers might have been observed returning to the blighted cottage, having along with them the key, which was the symbol of their tenancy, a spirit-lamp, with which they fondly told themselves they would be able to cook, a pork pie of suitable dimensions, and a quart of the worst whisky in Hampshire. Nor was this all they had effected; already (under the plea that they were landscape-painters) they had hired for dawn on the morrow a light but solid two-wheeled cart; so that when they entered in their new character, they were able to tell themselves that the back of the business was already broken. John proceeded to get tea; while Morris, foraging about the house, was presently delighted by discovering the lid of the water-butt upon the kitchen shelf. Here, then, was the packing-case complete; in the absence of straw, the blankets (which he himself, at least, had not the smallest intention of using for their present purpose) would exactly take the place of packing; and Morris, as the difficulties began to vanish from his path, rose almost to the brink of exultation. There was, however, one difficulty not yet faced, one upon which his whole scheme depended. Would John consent to remain alone in the cottage? He had not yet dared to put the question. It was with high good-humour that the pair sat down to the deal table, and proceeded to fall-to on the pork pie. Morris retailed the discovery of the lid, and the Great Vance was pleased to applaud by beating on the table with his fork in true music-hall style. “That’s the dodge,” he cried. “I always said a water-butt was what you wanted for this business.” “Of course,” said Morris, thinking this a favourable opportunity to prepare his brother, “of course you must stay on in this place till I give the word; I’ll give out that uncle is resting in the New Forest. It would not do for both of us to appear in London; we could never conceal the absence of the old man.” John’s jaw dropped. “O, come!” he cried. “You can stay in this hole yourself. I won’t.” The colour came into Morris’s cheeks. He saw that he must win his brother at any cost. “You must please remember, Johnny,” he said, “the amount of the tontine. If I succeed, we shall have each fifty thousand to place to our bank account; ay, and nearer sixty.” “But if you fail,” returned John, “what then? What’ll be the colour of our bank account in that case?” “I will pay all expenses,” said Morris, with an inward struggle; “you shall lose nothing.” “Well,” said John, with a laugh, “if the ex-s are yours, and half-profits mine, I don’t mind remaining here for a couple of days.” “A couple of days!” cried Morris, who was beginning to get angry and controlled himself with difficulty; “why, you would do more to win five pounds on a horse-race!” “Perhaps I would,” returned the Great Vance; “it’s the artistic temperament.” “This is monstrous!” burst out Morris. “I take all risks; I pay all expenses; I divide profits; and you won’t take the slightest pains to help me. It’s not decent; it’s not honest; it’s not even kind.” “But suppose,” objected John, who was considerably impressed by his brother’s vehemence, “suppose that Uncle Masterman is alive after all, and lives ten years longer; must I rot here all that time?” “Of course not,” responded Morris, in a more conciliatory tone; “I only ask a month at the outside; and if Uncle Masterman is not dead by that time you can go abroad.” “Go abroad?” repeated John eagerly. “Why shouldn’t I go at once? Tell’em that Joseph and I are seeing life in Paris.” “Nonsense,” said Morris. “Well, but look here,” said John; “it’s this house, it’s such a pigsty, it’s so dreary and damp. You said yourself that it was damp.” “Only to the carpenter,” Morris distinguished, “and that was to reduce the rent. But really, you know, now we’re in it, I’ve seen worse.” “And what am I to do?” complained the victim. “How can I entertain a friend?” “My dear Johnny, if you don’t think the tontine worth a little trouble, say so, and I’ll give the business up.” “You’re dead certain of the figures, I suppose?” asked John. “Well”—with a deep sigh—“send me the Pink Un and all the comic papers regularly. I’ll face the music.” As afternoon drew on, the cottage breathed more thrillingly of its native marsh; a creeping chill inhabited its chambers; the fire smoked, and a shower of rain, coming up from the channel on a slant of wind, tingled on the window-panes. At intervals, when the gloom deepened toward despair, Morris would produce the whisky-bottle, and at first John welcomed the diversion—not for long. It has been said this spirit was the worst in Hampshire; only those acquainted with the county can appreciate the force of that superlative; and at length even the Great Vance (who was no connoisseur) waved the decoction from his lips. The approach of dusk, feebly combated with a single tallow candle, added a touch of tragedy; and John suddenly stopped whistling through his fingers—an art to the practice of which he had been reduced—and bitterly lamented his concessions. “I can’t stay here a month,” he cried. “No one could. The thing’s nonsense, Morris. The parties that lived in the Bastille would rise against a place like this.” With an admirable affectation of indifference, Morris proposed a game of pitch-and-toss. To what will not the diplomatist condescend! It was John’s favourite game; indeed his only game—he had found all the rest too intellectual—and he played it with equal skill and good fortune. To Morris himself, on the other hand, the whole business was detestable; he was a bad pitcher, he had no luck in tossing, and he was one who suffered torments when he lost. But John was in a dangerous humour, and his brother was prepared for any sacrifice. By seven o’clock, Morris, with incredible agony, had lost a couple of half-crowns. Even with the tontine before his eyes, this was as much as he could bear; and, remarking that he would take his revenge some other time, he proposed a bit of supper and a grog. Before they had made an end of this refreshment it was time to be at work. A bucket of water for present necessities was withdrawn from the water-butt, which was then emptied and rolled before the kitchen fire to dry; and the two brothers set forth on their adventure under a starless heaven. Chapter 3　The Lecturer at Large Whether mankind is really partial to happiness is an open question. Not a month passes by but some cherished son runs off into the merchant service, or some valued husband decamps to Texas with a lady help; clergymen have fled from their parishioners; and even judges have been known to retire. To an open mind, it will appear (upon the whole) less strange that Joseph Finsbury should have been led to entertain ideas of escape. His lot (I think we may say) was not a happy one. My friend, Mr Morris, with whom I travel up twice or thrice a week from Snaresbrook Park, is certainly a gentleman whom I esteem; but he was scarce a model nephew. As for John, he is of course an excellent fellow; but if he was the only link that bound one to a home, I think the most of us would vote for foreign travel. In the case of Joseph, John (if he were a link at all) was not the only one; endearing bonds had long enchained the old gentleman to Bloomsbury; and by these expressions I do not in the least refer to Julia Hazeltine (of whom, however, he was fond enough), but to that collection of manuscript notebooks in which his life lay buried. That he should ever have made up his mind to separate himself from these collections, and go forth upon the world with no other resources than his memory supplied, is a circumstance highly pathetic in itself, and but little creditable to the wisdom of his nephews. The design, or at least the temptation, was already some months old; and when a bill for eight hundred pounds, payable to himself, was suddenly placed in Joseph’s hand, it brought matters to an issue. He retained that bill, which, to one of his frugality, meant wealth; and he promised himself to disappear among the crowds at Waterloo, or (if that should prove impossible) to slink out of the house in the course of the evening and melt like a dream into the millions of London. By a peculiar interposition of Providence and railway mismanagement he had not so long to wait. He was one of the first to come to himself and scramble to his feet after the Browndean catastrophe, and he had no sooner remarked his prostrate nephews than he understood his opportunity and fled. A man of upwards of seventy, who has just met with a railway accident, and who is cumbered besides with the full uniform of Sir Faraday Bond, is not very likely to flee far, but the wood was close at hand and offered the fugitive at least a temporary covert. Hither, then, the old gentleman skipped with extraordinary expedition, and, being somewhat winded and a good deal shaken, here he lay down in a convenient grove and was presently overwhelmed by slumber. The way of fate is often highly entertaining to the looker-on, and it is certainly a pleasant circumstance, that while Morris and John were delving in the sand to conceal the body of a total stranger, their uncle lay in dreamless sleep a few hundred yards deeper in the wood. He was awakened by the jolly note of a bugle from the neighbouring high road, where a char-a-banc was bowling by with some belated tourists. The sound cheered his old heart, it directed his steps into the bargain, and soon he was on the highway, looking east and west from under his vizor, and doubtfully revolving what he ought to do. A deliberate sound of wheels arose in the distance, and then a cart was seen approaching, well filled with parcels, driven by a good-natured looking man on a double bench, and displaying on a board the legend, “I Chandler, carrier”. In the infamously prosaic mind of Mr Finsbury, certain streaks of poetry survived and were still efficient; they had carried him to Asia Minor as a giddy youth of forty, and now, in the first hours of his recovered freedom, they suggested to him the idea of continuing his flight in Mr Chandler’s cart. It would be cheap; properly broached, it might even cost nothing, and, after years of mittens and hygienic flannel, his heart leaped out to meet the notion of exposure. Mr Chandler was perhaps a little puzzled to find so old a gentleman, so strangely clothed, and begging for a lift on so retired a roadside. But he was a good-natured man, glad to do a service, and so he took the stranger up; and he had his own idea of civility, and so he asked no questions. Silence, in fact, was quite good enough for Mr Chandler; but the cart had scarcely begun to move forward ere he found himself involved in a one-sided conversation. “I can see,” began Mr Finsbury, “by the mixture of parcels and boxes that are contained in your cart, each marked with its individual label, and by the good Flemish mare you drive, that you occupy the post of carrier in that great English system of transport which, with all its defects, is the pride of our country.” “Yes, sir,” returned Mr Chandler vaguely, for he hardly knew what to reply; “them parcels posts has done us carriers a world of harm.” “I am not a prejudiced man,” continued Joseph Finsbury. “As a young man I travelled much. Nothing was too small or too obscure for me to acquire. At sea I studied seamanship, learned the complicated knots employed by mariners, and acquired the technical terms. At Naples, I would learn the art of making macaroni; at Nice, the principles of making candied fruit. I never went to the opera without first buying the book of the piece, and making myself acquainted with the principal airs by picking them out on the piano with one finger.” “You must have seen a deal, sir,” remarked the carrier, touching up his horse; “I wish I could have had your advantages.” “Do you know how often the word whip occurs in the Old Testament?” continued the old gentleman. “One hundred and (if I remember exactly) forty-seven times.” “Do it indeed, sir?” said Mr Chandler. “I never should have thought it.” “The Bible contains three million five hundred and one thousand two hundred and forty-nine letters. Of verses I believe there are upward of eighteen thousand. There have been many editions of the Bible; Wycliff was the first to introduce it into England about the year 1300. The‘Paragraph Bible,’ as it is called, is a well-known edition, and is so called because it is divided into paragraphs. The‘Breeches Bible’is another well-known instance, and gets its name either because it was printed by one Breeches, or because the place of publication bore that name.” The carrier remarked drily that he thought that was only natural, and turned his attention to the more congenial task of passing a cart of hay; it was a matter of some difficulty, for the road was narrow, and there was a ditch on either hand. “I perceive,” began Mr Finsbury, when they had successfully passed the cart, “that you hold your reins with one hand; you should employ two.”