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Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
thought [θɔ:t] particular [pə`tɪkjulə] cure [kjuə] rheumatics [ru:`mætɪks]
At first I had supposed “the dead man’s chest” to be that identical big box of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled in my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man.
But by this time we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it was new, that night, to nobody but Dr Livesey, and on him I observed it did not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment quite angrily before he went on with his talk to old Taylor, the gardener, on a new cure for the rheumatics. In the meantime, the captain gradually brightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand upon the table before him in a way we all knew to mean — silence.
The voices stopped at once (голоса замерли сразу), all but Dr Livesey’s (все, кроме /голоса/ доктора Ливси); he went on as before (он продолжал как раньше), speaking clear and kind (говоря четко и дружелюбно), and drawing briskly at his pipe between every word or two (попыхивая энергично трубкой между каждым словом или двумя;
“Silence, there, between decks (молчать, там, на палубе: «между палубами»)!”
“Were you addressing me, sir (вы обращались ко мне, сэр)?” says the doctor; and when the ruffian had told him (хулиган сказал ему), with another oath (другой бранью), that this was so (что это было так).
“I have only one thing to say to you, sir (у меня есть только одна вещь, чтобы сказать вам, сэр),” replies the doctor (отвечает доктор), “that if you keep on drinking rum (если продолжите пить ром), the world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel (мир вскоре избавится от одного очень грязного мерзавца)!”
