The Western train had just arrived at Redfern railway-station with a lot of ordinary passengers and one swagman1.

西方号列车刚刚抵达雷德芬火车站，车上有很多普通乘客，还有一个流浪汉。

He was short， and stout， and bow-legged， and freckled， and sandy. He had red hair and small， twinkling， grey eyes， and—what often goes with such things—the expression of a born comedian. He was dressed in a ragged， well-washed print shirt， an old black waistcoat with a calico back， a pair of cloudy moleskins patched at the knees and held up by a plaited greenhide belt buckled loosely round his hips， a pair of well-worn， fuzzy blucher boots2， and a soft felt hat， green with age， and with no brim worth mentioning， and no crown to speak of. He swung a swag on to the platform， shouldered it， pulled out a billy3 and water-bag， and then went to a dog-box in the break van.

他身材矮小，敦实，罗圈腿，满脸雀斑，沙色皮肤。他一头红发，还有一双眨巴着的灰色小眼睛。所有这些给了他一幅天生喜剧演员的表情。他身着一件破旧干净的印花衬衫，套一件背后拼接白布的老旧黑色马甲，下身穿一条褪色的工装裤，膝盖处打着补丁，一条生牛皮编织腰带松松垮垮地挂在胯上。脚穿一双磨旧、毛边翻卷的布鲁彻尔靴子，头戴一顶软毡帽，旧得泛绿，几乎没有帽檐，更看不见帽顶。他把行包甩到站台上，扛起来，从里面扯出一只铁皮罐和一个水袋，然后朝火车的运狗车厢走去。

Five minutes later he appeared on the edge of the cab-platform， with an anxious-looking cattle-dog crouching4 against his legs， and one end of the chain in his hand.

五分钟后，他出现在出租车站台边缘，手里牵着狗链，一只神情焦虑的牧牛犬蜷缩在他的腿边。

He eased down the swag against a post， turned his face to the city， tilted his hat forward， and scratched the well-developed back of his head with a little finger.

他倚着柱子缓缓卸下行包，转身向面城区，把帽子往前拉了拉，用小拇指挠他那饱满的后脑勺。

He seemed undecided what track to take.

他似乎拿不定主意该走哪条路。