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William "Bendigo" Thompson, heavyweight champion of England in the old bare-knuckle days was one of the dirtiest and most treacherous fighters ever to step into a prize ring. Yet he was so popular that a town, a racehorse and a liqueur were named Bendigo in his honor during his lifetime. Bendigo Thompson was one of triplets born in Nottingham, England, on October 11, 1811. His mother was a coarse and violent woman. However, she was apparently acquainted with the Book of Daniel, for she nicknamed her three sons Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. As a child, the latter’s name was corrupted to Bendigo. He was raised in the slums. His mother was the terror of the neighborhood. She cursed like a fishwife and fought like an outraged army. When she lost her temper-a circumstance that occurred two or three times a day-she beat up, impartially, her children, her husband and any indignant neighbor who thrust his head in the door to protest the noise. But in her own savage way she loved her fighting son and he loved her. She taught Bendigo never to lead with his right and to fight from a crouch-a boxing style which he pioneered in the ring. When he was 21 years old he had attained his full height and weight: just over 5’9" and 164 pounds. (Though no heavyweight by modern standards, in those days they didn’t bother about division classifications.) His complexion was clear and fresh, his gray eyes bright and sparkling, his manner eccentric but confident. In October of 1832 he embarked upon his professional career. When he fought one Ned Smith the following March for a purse of five pounds, he cut Smith to pieces for six rounds, and knocked him out in the seventh. Ringside sports writers described him as quick, agile and muscular, with tremendous hitting power. By the time Bendigo began to make a name for himself, the sport of boxing, once the "pride and boast of England," had come into disrepute. Brutality in the ring had caused an increasing number of deaths among fighters; critics complained the fighters accepted bribes to throw matches. The sport was attracting a great following of hoodlums and cutthroats. As might be expected, this was precisely the kind of atmosphere in which Bendigo could-and did-thrive. During the next two years, he fought eight opponents without a loss. Bendigo’s 13th fight took him out of what today would be called the "preliminary boy" classification. It was in July of 1835. His opponent was Ben Caunt. They hated each other on sight. Caunt was them 22, stood 6’3"and weighted 210 pounds. Bendigo looked like a pygmy compared with Caunt. As one baffled sports writer of the period wrote. "Bendigo is the favorite at six to four, a state of odds which seems unaccountable when the disparity of size is considered." But the odds proved correct. Bendigo enraged his gigantic opponent by his peculiar bending, weaving and crouching techniques; and the spectators roared disapproval when he "accidentally" slipped or fell (thus ending a round) whenever Caunt was getting the better of him. Caunt finally lost his head, rushed across the ring and struck Bendigo while he was seated in his comer between rounds. This foul cost Caunt the fight. Bendigo continued his unbeaten career, whipping men almost twice his size, through skill and skullduggery. Bendigo’s fame spread. A racehorse was christened for him. The gold mining town of Sandhurst, in Australia, proudly changed its name to Bendigo. A distiller put on the market a liqueur called Bendigo. Caunt, unable to tolerate the idea that Bendigo held the title, hurled challenge after challenge at him. Bendigo fought others, but ignored him. Then, in the early 1840s Bendigo severely injured his knee while turning somersaults for the amusement of his friends. At this point, he announced his retirement from the ring and devoted himself to whisky, reminiscences and the management of a London public house, The Coach and Horses, which he had bought with his winnings. With Bendigo retired, the championship went by default and eventually was won by Caunt. His repeated taunts finally brought Bendigo out of retirement in September of 1845. The fight created extraordinary excitement and the crowd that gathered for it was estimated at over 10,000. Because the police were determined to prevent the fight, the ring was moved three separate times. It proved one of the most scandalous brawls in boxing history. Both men committed every known foul and invented a good many others. Frequently one or the other was tossed out of the ring onto the ringsiders. In the 93rd round, after two hours and ten minutes, the referee declared that Caunt went down without a blow, thus forfeiting the fight to Bendigo. The scandal of it all kept London clubmen in a state of excitement for months. Nevertheless, it is generally agreed that this disgraceful match had much to do with the reforms in the ’50s and ’60s that sent boxing on the road to respectability and made it once more a favorite sport of the aristocracy. Bendigo permanently retired from the ring after defeating Tom Paddock in 1850. He returned to Nottingham where his acrobatic feats, even in his old age, were remarkable and delighted children, with whom he was kind and gentle. He spent his sober moments gardening and fishing. An egocentric braggart, Bendigo oddly refused to discuss feats about which he could have boasted with reason, such as the three separate occasions when he saved persons from drowning-at the risk of his own life. When the townsfolk proposed to reward him for his courage, he indignantly refused to accept even a farthing. Bendigo died on August 23, 1880, after falling down a flight of steps and fracturing three ribs. A bony splinter perforated one of his lungs. It is said that his last words were: "I don’t mind dying. I’ll soon join my mother in heaven. \ In Bandito’s time, the length of a fight was ______.
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William "Bendigo" Thompson, heavyweight champion of England in the old bare-knuckle days was one of the dirtiest and most treacherous fighters ever to step into a prize ring. Yet he was so popular that a town, a racehorse and a liqueur were named Bendigo in his honor during his lifetime. Bendigo Thompson was one of triplets born in Nottingham, England, on October 11, 1811. His mother was a coarse and violent woman. However, she was apparently acquainted with the Book of Daniel, for she nicknamed her three sons Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. As a child, the latter’s name was corrupted to Bendigo. He was raised in the slums. His mother was the terror of the neighborhood. She cursed like a fishwife and fought like an outraged army. When she lost her temper-a circumstance that occurred two or three times a day-she beat up, impartially, her children, her husband and any indignant neighbor who thrust his head in the door to protest the noise. But in her own savage way she loved her fighting son and he loved her. She taught Bendigo never to lead with his right and to fight from a crouch-a boxing style which he pioneered in the ring. When he was 21 years old he had attained his full height and weight: just over 5’9" and 164 pounds. (Though no heavyweight by modern standards, in those days they didn’t bother about division classifications.) His complexion was clear and fresh, his gray eyes bright and sparkling, his manner eccentric but confident. In October of 1832 he embarked upon his professional career. When he fought one Ned Smith the following March for a purse of five pounds, he cut Smith to pieces for six rounds, and knocked him out in the seventh. Ringside sports writers described him as quick, agile and muscular, with tremendous hitting power. By the time Bendigo began to make a name for himself, the sport of boxing, once the "pride and boast of England," had come into disrepute. Brutality in the ring had caused an increasing number of deaths among fighters; critics complained the fighters accepted bribes to throw matches. The sport was attracting a great following of hoodlums and cutthroats. As might be expected, this was precisely the kind of atmosphere in which Bendigo could-and did-thrive. During the next two years, he fought eight opponents without a loss. Bendigo’s 13th fight took him out of what today would be called the "preliminary boy" classification. It was in July of 1835. His opponent was Ben Caunt. They hated each other on sight. Caunt was them 22, stood 6’3"and weighted 210 pounds. Bendigo looked like a pygmy compared with Caunt. As one baffled sports writer of the period wrote. "Bendigo is the favorite at six to four, a state of odds which seems unaccountable when the disparity of size is considered." But the odds proved correct. Bendigo enraged his gigantic opponent by his peculiar bending, weaving and crouching techniques; and the spectators roared disapproval when he "accidentally" slipped or fell (thus ending a round) whenever Caunt was getting the better of him. Caunt finally lost his head, rushed across the ring and struck Bendigo while he was seated in his comer between rounds. This foul cost Caunt the fight. Bendigo continued his unbeaten career, whipping men almost twice his size, through skill and skullduggery. Bendigo’s fame spread. A racehorse was christened for him. The gold mining town of Sandhurst, in Australia, proudly changed its name to Bendigo. A distiller put on the market a liqueur called Bendigo. Caunt, unable to tolerate the idea that Bendigo held the title, hurled challenge after challenge at him. Bendigo fought others, but ignored him. Then, in the early 1840s Bendigo severely injured his knee while turning somersaults for the amusement of his friends. At this point, he announced his retirement from the ring and devoted himself to whisky, reminiscences and the management of a London public house, The Coach and Horses, which he had bought with his winnings. With Bendigo retired, the championship went by default and eventually was won by Caunt. His repeated taunts finally brought Bendigo out of retirement in September of 1845. The fight created extraordinary excitement and the crowd that gathered for it was estimated at over 10,000. Because the police were determined to prevent the fight, the ring was moved three separate times. It proved one of the most scandalous brawls in boxing history. Both men committed every known foul and invented a good many others. Frequently one or the other was tossed out of the ring onto the ringsiders. In the 93rd round, after two hours and ten minutes, the referee declared that Caunt went down without a blow, thus forfeiting the fight to Bendigo. The scandal of it all kept London clubmen in a state of excitement for months. Nevertheless, it is generally agreed that this disgraceful match had much to do with the reforms in the ’50s and ’60s that sent boxing on the road to respectability and made it once more a favorite sport of the aristocracy. Bendigo permanently retired from the ring after defeating Tom Paddock in 1850. He returned to Nottingham where his acrobatic feats, even in his old age, were remarkable and delighted children, with whom he was kind and gentle. He spent his sober moments gardening and fishing. An egocentric braggart, Bendigo oddly refused to discuss feats about which he could have boasted with reason, such as the three separate occasions when he saved persons from drowning-at the risk of his own life. When the townsfolk proposed to reward him for his courage, he indignantly refused to accept even a farthing. Bendigo died on August 23, 1880, after falling down a flight of steps and fracturing three ribs. A bony splinter perforated one of his lungs. It is said that his last words were: "I don’t mind dying. I’ll soon join my mother in heaven. \ Bendigo was taught to fight by ______.
In 1981 Kenji Urada, a 37-year-old Japanese factory worker, climbed over a safety fence at a Kawasaki plant to carry out some maintenance work on a robot. In his haste, he failed to switch the robot off properly. Unable to sense him, the robot’s powerful hydraulic arm kept on working and accidentally pushed the engineer into a grinding machine. His death made Urada the first recorded victim to die at the hands of a robot. This astounding industrial accident would not have happened in a world in which robot behavior was governed by the Three Laws of Robotics drawn up by Isaac Asimov, a science fiction writer. The laws appeared in I, Robot, a book of short stories published in 1950 that inspired a Hollywood film. But decades later the laws, designed to prevent robots from harming people either through action or inaction, remain in the realm of fiction. With robots now poised to emerge from their industrial cages and to move into homes and workplaces, roboticists are concerned about the safety implications beyond the factory floor. To address these concerns, leading robot experts have come together to try to find ways to prevent robots from harming people. "Security, safety and sex are the big concerns," says Henrik Christensen, chairman of the European Robotics Network at the Swedish Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm, and one of the organisers of the new roboethics group. Should robots that are strong enough or heavy enough to crush people be allowed into homes Should robotic sex dolls resembling children be legally allowed These questions may seem esoteric but in the next few years they will become increasingly relevant, says Dr. Christensen. According to the United Nations Economic Commission for Europe’s World Robotics Survey, in 2002 the number of domestic and service robots more than tripled, nearly outstripping their industrial counterparts. Japanese industrial firms are racing to build humanoid robots to act as domestic helpers for the elderly, and South Korea has set a goal that 100K of households should have domestic robots by 2020. In light of all this, it is crucial that we start to think about safety and ethical guidelines now, says Dr. Christensen. So what exactly is being done to protect us from these mechanical menaces "Not enough," says Blay Whitby, an artificial-intelligence expert at the University of Sussex in England. This is hardly surprising given that the field of "safety-critical computing" is barely a decade old, he says. But things are changing, and researchers are increasingly taking an interest in trying to make robots safer. One approach, which sounds simple enough, is to try to program them to avoid contact with people altogether. But this is much harder than it sounds. Getting a robot to navigate across a cluttered room is difficult enough without having to take into account what its various limbs or appendages might bump into along the way. Regulating the behavior of robots is going to become more difficult in the future, since they will increasingly have self-learning mechanisms built into them, says Gianmarco Veruggio, a roboticist at the Institute of Intelligent Systems for Automation in Genoa, Italy. As a result, their behavior will become impossible to predict fully, he says, since they will not be behaving in predefined ways but will learn new behavior as they go. According to the passage, domestic robots will
In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father never comes—he hates shopping, especially with his wife. Instead, he stays at home to read the paper and put around his study: To do things that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence. Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and seatbelts： and they’re off. On summer nights, when it’s light until after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand as it’s done. It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother’s voice finds them from a few aisles away. Dinner squirms in the daughters’ stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-right-this-second or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don’t-cry warning, but the younger one’s cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother’s voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid，stupid，stupid. I HATE stupid people." It’s the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother’s tong, angry legs. It’s the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into place. It’s those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will go. In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I’m throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful kids." And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You’ll be happy when I’m in my grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob as she opens wide, engulfing her small hand and scrubbing each and every molar. The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him. "Fucking lousy husband. Do-nothing father. "And on like that for an hour or so more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it’s bare feet and cool hands on a small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "Sorry Mom got a little mad." Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long fingers rake through the younger one’s curls. "Tomorrow evening, we’ll get you some kind of treat. Right after dinner, we’ll go to the mall.\ Which of the following adjectives does NOT describe the mother
In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father never comes—he hates shopping, especially with his wife. Instead, he stays at home to read the paper and put around his study: To do things that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence. Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and seatbelts： and they’re off. On summer nights, when it’s light until after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand as it’s done. It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother’s voice finds them from a few aisles away. Dinner squirms in the daughters’ stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-right-this-second or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don’t-cry warning, but the younger one’s cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother’s voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid，stupid，stupid. I HATE stupid people." It’s the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother’s tong, angry legs. It’s the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into place. It’s those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will go. In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I’m throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful kids." And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You’ll be happy when I’m in my grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob as she opens wide, engulfing her small hand and scrubbing each and every molar. The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him. "Fucking lousy husband. Do-nothing father. "And on like that for an hour or so more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it’s bare feet and cool hands on a small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "Sorry Mom got a little mad." Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long fingers rake through the younger one’s curls. "Tomorrow evening, we’ll get you some kind of treat. Right after dinner, we’ll go to the mall.\ The word "squirms’ in the fourth paragraph probably means
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