The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (42 page)

Jimmie had an idea it wasn’t common courtesy for a friend to come to one’s home and ruin one’s sister. But he was not sure how much Pete knew about the rules of politeness.

The following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in the evening. In passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music box. She was grinning in the dim light that drifted through dust-stained panes. She beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger.

“Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t’ink I got onto las’ night. It was deh funnies’ t’ing I ever saw,” she cried, coming close to him and leering. She was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale. “I was by me door las’ night when yer sister and her jude feller came in late, oh, very late. An’ she, the dear, she was a-cryin’ as if her heart would break, she was. It was deh funnies’ t’ing I ever saw. An’ right out here by me door she asked him did he love her, did he. An’ she was a-cryin’ as if her heart would break, poor t’ing. An’ him, I could see by deh way what he said it dat she had been askin’ orften, he says: ‘Oh, hell, yes,’ he says, says he, ‘Oh, hell, yes.’”

Storm-clouds swept over Jimmie’s face, but he turned from the leathery old woman and plodded on up-stairs.

“Oh, hell, yes,” called she after him. She laughed a laugh that was like a prophetic croak. “‘Oh, hell, yes,’ he says, says he, ‘Oh, hell, yes.’”

There was no one in at home. The rooms showed that attempts had been made at tidying them. Parts of the wreckage of the day before had been repaired by an unskilful hand. A chair or two and the table, stood uncertainly upon legs. The floor had been newly swept. Too, the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains, and the lambrequin, with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size, had been returned, in a worn and sorry state, to its position at the mantel. Maggie’s jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door.

Jimmie walked to the window and began to look through the blurred glass. It occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an instant, if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers.

Suddenly, however, he began to swear.

“But he was me frien’! I brought ‘im here! Dat’s deh hell of it!”

He fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the furious pitch.

“I’ll kill deh jay! Dat’s what I’ll do! I’ll kill deh jay!”

He clutched his hat and sprang toward the door. But it opened and his mother’s great form blocked the passage.

“What deh hell’s deh matter wid yeh?” exclaimed she, coming into the rooms.

Jimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily.

“Well, Maggie’s gone teh deh devil! Dat’s what! See?”

“Eh?” said his mother.

“Maggie’s gone teh deh devil! Are yehs deaf?” roared Jimmie, impatiently.

“Deh hell she has,” murmured the mother, astounded.

Jimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window. His mother sat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and delivered a maddened whirl of oaths. Her son turned to look at her as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face convulsed with passion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation.

“May Gawd curse her forever,” she shrieked. “May she eat nothin’ but stones and deh dirt in deh street. May she sleep in deh gutter an’ never see deh sun shine agin. Deh damn—”

“Here, now,” said her son. “Take a drop on yourself.”

The mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling.

“She’s deh devil’s own chil’, Jimmie,” she whispered. “Ah, who would t’ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly, Jimmie, me son. Many deh hour I’ve spent in talk wid dat girl an’ tol’ her if she ever went on deh streets I’d see her damned. An’ after all her bringin’ up an’ what I tol’ her and talked wid her, she goes teh deh bad, like a duck teh water.”

The tears rolled down her furrowed face. Her hands trembled.

“An’ den when dat Sadie MacMallister next door to us was sent teh deh devil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory, didn’t I tell our Mag dat if she—”

“Ah, dat’s annuder story,” interrupted the brother. “Of course, dat Sadie was nice an’ all dat — but — see — it ain’t dessame as if — well, Maggie was diff’ent — see — she was diff’ent.”

He was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously held, that all sisters, excepting his own, could advisedly be ruined.

He suddenly broke out again. “I’ll go t’ump hell outa deh mug what did her deh harm. I’ll kill ‘im! He t’inks he kin scrap, but when he gits me a-chasin’ ‘im he’ll fin’ out where he’s wrong, deh damned duffer. I’ll wipe up deh street wid ‘im.”

In a fury he plunged out of the doorway. As he vanished the mother raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating.

“May Gawd curse her forever,” she cried.

In the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women talking volubly. When he strode by they paid no attention to him.

“She allus was a bold thing,” he heard one of them cry in an eager voice. “Dere wasn’t a feller come teh deh house but she’d try teh mash ‘im. My Annie says deh shameless t’ing tried teh ketch her feller, her own feller, what we useter know his fader.”

“I could a’ tol’ yehs dis two years ago,” said a woman, in a key of triumph. “Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says teh my ol’ man, I says, ‘Dat Johnson girl ain’t straight,’ I says. ‘Oh, hell,’ he says. ‘Oh, hell.’ ‘Dat’s all right,’ I says, ‘but I know what I knows,’ I says, ‘an’ it ‘ill come out later. You wait an’ see,’ I says, ‘you see.’”

“Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin’ wrong wid dat girl. I didn’t like her actions.”

On the street Jimmie met a friend. “What deh hell?” asked the latter.

Jimmie explained. “An’ I’ll t’ump ‘im till he can’t stand.”

“Oh, what deh hell,” said the friend. “What’s deh use! Yeh’ll git pulled in! Everybody ‘ill be onto it! An’ ten plunks! Gee!”

Jimmie was determined. “He t’inks he kin scrap, but he’ll fin’ out diff’ent.”

“Gee,” remonstrated the friend. “What deh hell?”

On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage.

The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy.

Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded.

Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. “A beeh,” said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar.

At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes.

“Gin,” said Jimmie.

“Gin,” said the companion.

Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features.

Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt.

“He’s a dindy masher, ain’t he, by Gawd?” laughed Jimmie.

“Oh, hell, yes,” said the companion, sneering widely. “He’s great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat’s enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in ‘is sleep.”

The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion.

“Gee! ain’t he hot stuff!”

“Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!”

“Hey,” cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip.

“Well,” he growled, “what’s eatin’ yehs?”

“Gin,” said Jimmie.

“Gin,” said the companion.

As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. Jimmie’s companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete’s direction.

“Say, Jimmie,” demanded he, “what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?”

“Damned if I knows,” replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly.

“You fellers can’t guy me,” he said. “Drink yer stuff an’ git out an’ don’ make no trouble.”

Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came.

“Who deh hell has said anyt’ing teh you,” cried they in the same breath.

The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly.

“Ah, come off,” said Pete to the two men. “Don’t pick me up for no jay. Drink yer rum an’ git out an’ don’ make no trouble.”

“Oh, deh hell,” airily cried Jimmie.

“Oh, deh hell,” airily repeated his companion.

“We goes when we git ready! See!” continued Jimmie.

“Well,” said Pete in a threatening voice, “don’ make no trouble.”

Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled like a wild animal.

“Well, what if we does? See?” said he.

Dark blood flushed into Pete’s face, and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmie.

“Well, den we’ll see whose deh bes’ man, you or me,” he said.

The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door.

Jimmie began to swell with valor.

“Don’ pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes’ men in deh city. See? I’m a scrapper, I am. Ain’t dat right, Billie?”

“Sure, Mike,” responded his companion in tones of conviction.

“Oh, hell,” said Pete, easily. “Go fall on yerself.”

The two men again began to laugh.

“What deh hell is dat talkin’?” cried the companion.

“Damned if I knows,” replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt.

Pete made a furious gesture. “Git outa here now, an’ don’ make no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin’ fer a scrap an’ it’s damn likely yeh’ll fin’ one if yeh keeps on shootin’ off yer mout’s. I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. Dat’s right! See? Don’ pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind dis bar, I t’rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?”

“Oh, hell,” cried the two men in chorus.

The glare of a panther came into Pete’s eyes. “Dat’s what I said! Unnerstan’?”

He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him.

They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery.

“Well, what deh hell yer goin’ teh do?” gritted Jimmie.

Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near.

“Well, what deh hell yer goin’ teh do?” repeated Jimmie’s ally. They kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove to make him attempt the initial blow.

“Keep back, now! Don’ crowd me,” ominously said Pete.

Again they chorused in contempt. “Oh, hell!”

In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle.

“Well, why deh hell don’ yeh try teh t’row us out?” cried Jimmie and his ally with copious sneers.

The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. Their clenched fists moved like eager weapons.

The allied two jostled the bartender’s elbows, glaring at him with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall.

Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from his eyes. He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at Jimmie’s face. His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete’s bowed head.

The quiet stranger vanished.

The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. The faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. Their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire.

Each head was huddled between its owner’s shoulders, and arms were swinging with marvelous rapidity. Feet scraped to and fro with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor. Blows left crimson blotches upon pale skin. The curses of the first quarter minute of the fight died away. The breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and heaving. Pete at intervals gave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill. Jimmie’s ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac. Jimmie was silent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest. The rage of fear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled.

At a tottering moment a blow from Pete’s hand struck the ally and he crashed to the floor. He wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping the quiet stranger’s beer glass from the bar, hurled it at Pete’s head.

High on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in all directions. Then missiles came to every man’s hand. The place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air. They were thrown point blank at bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them. Mirrors splintered to nothing.

The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some unknown prayers, perhaps for death.

The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block.

“Dey’ve trowed a bloke inteh deh street.”

People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to look under the bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent legs, changed in a moment to a crowd.

A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in absorbing anxiety to see.

Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door.

The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at Jimmie’s coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused.

“Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh been up to?”