英语故事:夏夜惊魂

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The fact that Henry Armstrong was buried did not seem to him to prove that he was dead: he had always been a hard man to convince（说服） . That he really was buried, the testimonyof his senses compelled him to admit. His posture- flat upon his back, with his hands crossed upon his stomach and tied with something that he easily broke without profitably altering the situation - the strict confinementand did not greatly concern himself about the uncommonfate that had been allottedto him. No philosopher was he - just a plain, commonplace person gifted, for the time being, with a pathological indifferencefuture, he fell asleep and all was peace with Henry Armstrong.

But something was going on overhead. It was a dark summer night, shot through with infrequent shimmersa storm. These brief, stammeringilluminations brought out with ghastly distinctness the monuments and headstones of the cemeterywitness was likely to be straying about a cemetery, so the three men who were there, digging into the grave of Henry Armstrong, felt reasonably secure.

Two of them were young students from a medical college a few miles away; the third was a gigantic negro known as Jess. For many years Jess had been employed about the cemetery as a man-of-all-work and it was his favorite pleasantry that he knew 'every soul in the place'. From the nature of what he was now doing it was inferable that the place was not so populouswas not difficult: the earth with which the grave had been loosely filled a few hours before offered little resistance and was soon thrown out. Removal of the casket from its box was less easy, but it was taken out, for it was a perquisiteof Jess, who carefully unscrewed the cover and laid it aside, exposing the body in black trousers and white shirt. At that instant the air sprang to flame, a cracking shock of thunder shook the stunnedworld and Henry Armstrong tranquillysat up. With inarticulate cries the men fled in terror, each in a different direction. For nothing on earth could two of them have been persuaded to return. But Jess was of another breed.

In the grey of the morning the two students, pallidto a gatepost near the door of the dissecting-room. Mechanically they entered the room. On a bench in the obscurity sat the negro Jess. He rose, grinning, all eyes and teeth.

'I'm waiting for my pay,' he said.

Stretched naked on a long table lay the body of Henry Armstrong, the head defiledwith blood and clay from a blow with a spade.

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