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Title: The Open Boat and Other StoriesAuthor: Stephen Crane* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0700051h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: December 2014Most recent update: December 2014Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg AustraliaLicence which may be viewed online.
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To the Memory of
THE LATE WILLIAM HIGGINS
and to
CAPTAIN EDWARD MURPHY
and
STEWARD C. B. MONTGOMERY
Of the sunk Steamer 'Commodore.'
Part I. Minor Conflicts
The Open Boat
A Man and Some Others
The Bride comes to Yellow Sky
The Wise Men
The Five White Mice
Flanagan and His Short FilibusteringAdventure
Horses
Death and the Child
Part II. Midnight Sketches
An Experiment in Misery
The Men in the Storm
The Duel that was not Fought
An Ominous Baby
A Great Mistake
An Eloquence of Grief
The Auction
The Pace of Youth
A Detail
A Tale intended to be after the Fact.
Being the Experience of Four Men from the Sunk Steamer'Commodore'
I
None of them knew the colour of the sky. Their eyes glancedlevel, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them.These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which wereof foaming white, and all of the men knew the colours of the sea.The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at alltimes its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up inpoints like rocks.
Many a man ought to have a bath-tub larger than the boat whichhere rode upon the sea. These waves were most wrongfully andbarbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top was a problem insmall boat navigation.
The cook squatted in the bottom and looked with both eyes at thesix inches of gunwale which separated him from the ocean. Hissleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of hisunbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat. Often hesaid: "Gawd! That was a narrow clip." As he remarked it heinvariably gazed eastward over the broken sea.
The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat,sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water thatswirled in over the stern. It was a thin little oar and it seemedoften ready to snap.
The correspondent, pulling at the other oar, watched the wavesand wondered why he was there.
The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buriedin that profound dejection and indifference which comes,temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when,willy nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down.The mind of the master of a vessel is rooted deep in the timbers ofher, though he commanded for a day or a decade, and this captainhad on him the stern impression of a scene in the greys of dawn ofseven turned faces, and later a stump of a top-mast with a whiteball on it that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low andlower, and down. Thereafter there was something strange in hisvoice. Although steady, it was deep with mourning, and of a qualitybeyond oration or tears.
"Keep 'er a little more south, Billie," said he.
"'A little more south,' sir," said the oiler in the stern.
A seat in this boat was not unlike a seat upon a buckingbroncho, and, by the same token, a broncho is not much smaller. Thecraft pranced and reared, and plunged like an animal. As each wavecame, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at afence outrageously high. The manner of her scramble over thesewalls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of themwere ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing downfrom the summit of each wave, requiring a new leap, and a leap fromthe air. Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide,and race, and splash down a long incline, and arrive bobbing andnodding in front of the next menace.
A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that aftersuccessfully surmounting one wave you discover that there isanother behind it just as important and just as nervously anxiousto do something effective in the way of swamping boats. In aten-foot dingey one can get an idea of the resources of the sea inthe line of waves that is not probable to the average experiencewhich is never at sea in a dingey. As each slaty wall of waterapproached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat,and it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave wasthe final outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the grim water.There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they camein silence, save for the snarling of the crests.
In the wan light, the faces of the men must have been grey.Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as they gazed steadilyastern. Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtlesslyhave been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no timeto see it, and if they had had leisure there were other things tooccupy their minds. The sun swung steadily up the sky, and theyknew it was broad day because the colour of the sea changed fromslate to emerald-green, streaked with amber lights, and the foamwas like tumbling snow. The process of the breaking day was unknownto them. They were aware only of this effect upon the colour of thewaves that rolled toward them.
In disjointed sentences the cook and the correspondent argued asto the difference between a life-saving station and a house ofrefuge. The cook had said: "There's a house of refuge just north ofthe Mosquito Inlet Light, and as soon as they see us, they'll comeoff in their boat and pick us up."
"As soon as who see us?" said the correspondent.
"The crew," said the cook.
"Houses of refuge don't have crews," said the correspondent. "AsI understand them, they are only places where clothes and grub arestored for the benefit of shipwrecked people. They don't carrycrews."
"Oh, yes, they do," said the cook.
"No, they don't," said the correspondent.
"Well, we're not there yet, anyhow," said the oiler, in thestern.
"Well," said the cook, "perhaps it's not a house of refuge thatI'm thinking of as being near Mosquito Inlet Light. Perhaps it's alife-saving station."
"We're not there yet," said the oiler, in the stern.
II
As the boat bounced from the top of each wave, the wind torethrough the hair of the hatless men, and as the craft plopped herstern down again the spray slashed past them. The crest of each ofthese waves was a hill, from the top of which the men surveyed, fora moment, a broad tumultuous expanse, shining and wind-riven. Itwas probably splendid. It was probably glorious, this play of thefree sea, wild with lights of emerald and white and amber.
"Bully good thing it's an on-shore wind," said the cook. "Ifnot, where would we be? Wouldn't have a show."
"That's right," said the correspondent.
The busy oiler nodded his assent.
Then the captain, in the bow, chuckled in a way that expressedhumour, contempt, tragedy, all in one. "Do you think we've got muchof a show now, boys?" said he.
Whereupon the three were silent, save for a trifle of hemmingand hawing. To express any particular optimism at this time theyfelt to be childish and stupid, but they all doubtless possessedthis sense of the situation in their mind. A young man thinksdoggedly at such times. On the other hand, the ethics of theircondition was decidedly against any open suggestion ofhopelessness. So they were silent.
"Oh, well," said the captain, soothing his children, "we'll getashore all right."
But there was that in his tone which made them think, so theoiler quoth: "Yes! If this wind holds!"
The cook was bailing: "Yes! If we don't catch hell in thesurf."
Canton flannel gulls flew near and far. Sometimes they sat downon the sea, near patches of brown sea-weed that rolled over thewaves with a movement like carpets on a line in a gale. The birdssat comfortably in groups, and they were envied by some in thedingey, for the wrath of the sea was no more to them than it was toa covey of prairie chickens a thousand miles inland. Often theycame very close and stared at the men with black bead-like eyes. Atthese times they were uncanny and sinister in their unblinkingscrutiny, and the men hooted angrily at them, telling them to begone. One came, and evidently decided to alight on the top of thecaptain's head. The bird flew parallel to the boat and did notcircle, but made short sidelong jumps in the air inchicken-fashion. His black eyes were wistfully fixed upon thecaptain's head. "Ugly brute," said the oiler to the bird. "You lookas if you were made with a jack-knife." The cook and thecorrespondent swore darkly at the creature. The captain naturallywished to knock it away with the end of the heavy painter; but hedid not dare do it, because anything resembling an emphatic gesturewould have capsized this freighted boat, and so with his open hand,the captain gently and carefully waved the gull away. After it hadbeen discouraged from the pursuit the captain breathed easier onaccount of his hair, and others breathed easier because the birdstruck their minds at this time as being somehow grewsome andominous.
In the meantime the oiler and the correspondent rowed. And alsothey rowed.
They sat together in the same seat, and each rowed an oar. Thenthe oiler took both oars; then the correspondent took both oars;then the oiler; then the correspondent. They rowed and they rowed.The very ticklish part of the business was when the time came forthe reclining one in the stern to take his turn at the oars. By thevery last star of truth, it is easier to steal eggs from under ahen than it was to change seats in the dingey. First the man in thestern slid his hand along the thwart and moved with care, as if hewere of Sèvres. Then the man in the rowing seat slid his hand alongthe other thwart. It was all done with the most extraordinary care.As the two sidled past each other, the whole party kept watchfuleyes on the coming wave, and the captain cried: "Look out now!Steady there!"
The brown mats of sea-weed that appeared from time to time werelike islands, bits of earth. They were travelling, apparently,neither one way nor the other. They were, to all intents,stationary. They informed the men in the boat that it was makingprogress slowly toward the land.
The captain, rearing cautiously in the bow, after the dingeysoared on a great swell, said that he had seen the lighthouse atMosquito Inlet. Presently the cook remarked that he had seen it.The correspondent was at the oars then, and for some reason he toowished to look at the lighthouse, but his back was toward the farshore and the waves were important, and for some time he could notseize an opportunity to turn his head. But at last there came awave more gentle than the others, and when at the crest of it heswiftly scoured the western horizon.
"See it?" said the captain.
"No," said the correspondent slowly, "I didn't seeanything."
"Look again," said the captain. He pointed. "It's exactly inthat direction."
At the top of another wave, the correspondent did as he was bid,and this time his eyes chanced on a small still thing on the edgeof the swaying horizon. It was precisely like the point of a pin.It took an anxious eye to find a lighthouse so tiny.
"Think we'll make it, captain?"
"If this wind holds and the boat don't swamp, we can't do muchelse," said the captain.
The little boat, lifted by each towering sea, and splashedviciously by the crests, made progress that in the absence ofsea-weed was not apparent to those in her. She seemed just a weething wallowing, miraculously top-up, at the mercy of five oceans.Occasionally, a great spread of water, like white flames, swarmedinto her.
"Bail her, cook," said the captain serenely.
"All right, captain," said the cheerful cook.
III
It would be difficult to describe the subtle brotherhood of menthat was here established on the seas. No one said that it was so.No one mentioned it. But it dwelt in the boat, and each man felt itwarm him. They were a captain, an oiler, a cook, and acorrespondent, and they were friends, friends in a more curiouslyiron-bound degree than may be common. The hurt captain, lyingagainst the water-jar in the bow, spoke always in a low voice andcalmly, but he could never command a more ready and swiftlyobedient crew than the motley three of the dingey. It was more thana mere recognition of what was best for the common safety. Therewas surely in it a quality that was personal and heartfelt. Andafter this devotion to the commander of the boat there was thiscomradeship that the correspondent, for instance, who had beentaught to be cynical of men, knew even at the time was the bestexperience of his life. But no one said that it was so. No onementioned it.
"I wish we had a sail," remarked the captain. "We might try myovercoat on the end of an oar and give you two boys a chance torest." So the cook and the correspondent held the mast and spreadwide the overcoat. The oiler steered, and the little boat made goodway with her new rig. Sometimes the oiler had to scull sharply tokeep a sea from breaking into the boat, but otherwise sailing was asuccess.
Meanwhile the lighthouse had been growing slowly larger. It hadnow almost assumed colour, and appeared like a little grey shadowon the sky. The man at the oars could not be prevented from turninghis head rather often to try for a glimpse of this little greyshadow.
At last, from the top of each wave the men in the tossing boatcould see land. Even as the lighthouse was an upright shadow on thesky, this land seemed but a long black shadow on the sea. Itcertainly was thinner than paper. "We must be about opposite NewSmyrna," said the cook, who had coasted this shore often inschooners. "Captain, by the way, I believe they abandoned thatlife-saving station there about a year ago."
"Did they?" said the captain.
The wind slowly died away. The cook and the correspondent werenot now obliged to slave in order to hold high the oar. But thewaves continued their old impetuous swooping at the dingey, and thelittle craft, no longer under way, struggled woundily over them.The oiler or the correspondent took the oars again.
Shipwrecks areà propos of nothing. If men could onlytrain for them and have them occur when the men had reached pinkcondition, there would be less drowning at sea. Of the four in thedingey none had slept any time worth mentioning for two days andtwo nights previous to embarking in the dingey, and in theexcitement of clambering about the deck of a foundering ship theyhad also forgotten to eat heartily.
For these reasons, and for others, neither the oiler nor thecorrespondent was fond of rowing at this time. The correspondentwondered ingenuously how in the name of all that was sane couldthere be people who thought it amusing to row a boat. It was not anamusement; it was a diabolical punishment, and even a genius ofmental aberrations could never conclude that it was anything but ahorror to the muscles and a crime against the back. He mentioned tothe boat in general how the amusement of rowing struck him, and theweary-faced oiler smiled in full sympathy. Previously to thefoundering, by the way, the oiler had worked double-watch in theengine-room of the ship.
"Take her easy, now, boys," said the captain. "Don't spendyourselves. If we have to run a surf you'll need all your strength,because we'll sure have to swim for it. Take your time."
Slowly the land arose from the sea. From a black line it becamea line of black and a line of white, trees and sand. Finally, thecaptain said that he could make out a house on the shore. "That'sthe house of refuge, sure," said the cook. "They'll see us beforelong, and come out after us."
The distant lighthouse reared high. "The keeper ought to be ableto make us out now, if he's looking through a glass," said thecaptain. "He'll notify the life-saving people."
"None of those other boats could have got ashore to give word ofthe wreck," said the oiler, in a low voice. "Else the life-boatwould be out hunting us."
Slowly and beautifully the land loomed out of the sea. The windcame again. It had veered from the north-east to the south-east.Finally, a new sound struck the ears of the men in the boat. It wasthe low thunder of the surf on the shore. "We'll never be able tomake the lighthouse now," said the captain. "Swing her head alittle more north, Billie," said he.
"'A little more north,' sir," said the oiler.
Whereupon the little boat turned her nose once more down thewind, and all but the oarsman watched the shore grow. Under theinfluence of this expansion doubt and direful apprehension wasleaving the minds of the men. The management of the boat was stillmost absorbing, but it could not prevent a quiet cheerfulness. Inan hour, perhaps, they would be ashore.
Their backbones had become thoroughly used to balancing in theboat, and they now rode this wild colt of a dingey like circus men.The correspondent thought that he had been drenched to the skin,but happening to feel in the top pocket of his coat, he foundtherein eight cigars. Four of them were soaked with sea-water; fourwere perfectly scatheless. After a search, somebody produced threedry matches, and thereupon the four waifs rode impudently in theirlittle boat, and with an assurance of an impending rescue shiningin their eyes, puffed at the big cigars and judged well and ill ofall men. Everybody took a drink of water.
IV
"Cook," remarked the captain, "there don't seem to be any signsof life about your house of refuge."
"No," replied the cook. "Funny they don't see us!"
A broad stretch of lowly coast lay before the eyes of the men.It was of dunes topped with dark vegetation. The roar of the surfwas plain, and sometimes they could see the white lip of a wave asit spun up the beach. A tiny house was blocked out black upon thesky. Southward, the slim lighthouse lifted its little greylength.
Tide, wind, and waves were swinging the dingey northward. "Funnythey don't see us," said the men.
The surf's roar was here dulled, but its tone was, nevertheless,thunderous and mighty. As the boat swam over the great rollers, themen sat listening to this roar. "We'll swamp sure," saideverybody.
It is fair to say here that there was not a life-saving stationwithin twenty miles in either direction, but the men did not knowthis fact, and in consequence they made dark and opprobriousremarks concerning the eyesight of the nation's life-savers. Fourscowling men sat in the dingey and surpassed records in theinvention of epithets.
"Funny they don't see us."
The light-heartedness of a former time had completely faded. Totheir sharpened minds it was easy to conjure pictures of all kindsof incompetency and blindness and, indeed, cowardice. There was theshore of the populous land, and it was bitter and bitter to themthat from it came no sign.
"Well," said the captain, ultimately, "I suppose we'll have tomake a try for ourselves. If we stay out here too long, we'll noneof us have strength left to swim after the boat swamps."
And so the oiler, who was at the oars, turned the boat straightfor the shore. There was a sudden tightening of muscles. There wassome thinking.
"If we don't all get ashore—" said the captain. "If wedon't all get ashore, I suppose you fellows know where to send newsof my finish?"
They then briefly exchanged some addresses and admonitions. Asfor the reflections of the men, there was a great deal of rage inthem. Perchance they might be formulated thus: "If I am going to bedrowned—if I am going to be drowned—if I am going to bedrowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea,was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? WasI brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was aboutto nibble the sacred cheese of life? It is preposterous. If thisold ninny-woman, Fate, cannot do better than this, she should bedeprived of the management of men's fortunes. She is an old hen whoknows not her intention. If she has decided to drown me, why didshe not do it in the beginning and save me all this trouble? Thewhole affair is absurd.... But no, she cannot mean to drown me. Shedare not drown me. She cannot drown me. Not after all this work."Afterward the man might have had an impulse to shake his fist atthe clouds: "Just you drown me, now, and then hear what I callyou!"
The billows that came at this time were more formidable. Theyseemed always just about to break and roll over the little boat ina turmoil of foam. There was a preparatory and long growl in thespeech of them. No mind unused to the sea would have concluded thatthe dingey could ascend these sheer heights in time. The shore wasstill afar. The oiler was a wily surfman. "Boys," he said swiftly,"she won't live three minutes more, and we're too far out to swim.Shall I take her to sea again, captain?"
"Yes! Go ahead!" said the captain.
This oiler, by a series of quick miracles, and fast and steadyoarsmanship, turned the boat in the middle of the surf and took hersafely to sea again.
There was a considerable silence as the boat bumped over thefurrowed sea to deeper water. Then somebody in gloom spoke. "Well,anyhow, they must have seen us from the shore by now."
The gulls went in slanting flight up the wind toward the greydesolate east. A squall, marked by dingy clouds, and cloudsbrick-red, like smoke from a burning building, appeared from thesouth-east.
"What do you think of those life-saving people? Ain't theypeaches?"
"Funny they haven't seen us."
"Maybe they think we're out here for sport! Maybe they thinkwe're fishin'. Maybe they think we're damned fools."
It was a long afternoon. A changed tide tried to force themsouthward, but wind and wave said northward. Far ahead, wherecoast-line, sea, and sky formed their mighty angle, there werelittle dots which seemed to indicate a city on the shore.
"St. Augustine?"
The captain shook his head. "Too near Mosquito Inlet."
And the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed. Then theoiler rowed. It was a weary business. The human back can become theseat of more aches and pains than are registered in books for thecomposite anatomy of a regiment. It is a limited area, but it canbecome the theatre of innumerable muscular conflicts, tangles,wrenches, knots, and other comforts.
"Did you ever like to row, Billie?" asked the correspondent.
"No," said the oiler. "Hang it."
When one exchanged the rowing-seat for a place in the bottom ofthe boat, he suffered a bodily depression that caused him to becareless of everything save an obligation to wiggle one finger.There was cold sea-water swashing to and fro in the boat, and helay in it. His head, pillowed on a thwart, was within an inch ofthe swirl of a wave crest, and sometimes a particularlyobstreperous sea came in-board and drenched him once more. Butthese matters did not annoy him. It is almost certain that if theboat had capsized he would have tumbled comfortably out upon theocean as if he felt sure that it was a great soft mattress.
"Look! There's a man on the shore!"
"Where?"
"There! See 'im? See 'im?"
"Yes, sure! He's walking along."
"Now he's stopped. Look! He's facing us!"
"He's waving at us!"
"So he is! By thunder!"
"Ah, now we're all right! Now we're all right! There'll be aboat out here for us in half-an-hour."
"He's going on. He's running. He's going up to that housethere."
The remote beach seemed lower than the sea, and it required asearching glance to discern the little black figure. The captainsaw a floating stick and they rowed to it. A bath-towel was by someweird chance in the boat, and, tying this on the stick, the captainwaved it. The oarsman did not dare turn his head, so he was obligedto ask questions.
"What's he doing now?"
"He's standing still again. He's looking, I think.... There hegoes again. Towards the house.... Now he's stopped again."
"Is he waving at us?"
"No, not now! he was, though."
"Look! There comes another man!"
"He's running."
"Look at him go, would you."
"Why, he's on a bicycle. Now he's met the other man. They'reboth waving at us. Look!"
"There comes something up the beach."
"What the devil is that thing?"
"Why, it looks like a boat."
"Why, certainly it's a boat."
"No, it's on wheels."
"Yes, so it is. Well, that must be the life-boat. They drag themalong shore on a wagon."
"That's the life-boat, sure."
"No, by ——, it's—it's an omnibus."
"I tell you it's a life-boat."
"It is not! It's an omnibus. I can see it plain. See? One ofthese big hotel omnibuses."
"By thunder, you're right. It's an omnibus, sure as fate. Whatdo you suppose they are doing with an omnibus? Maybe they are goingaround collecting the life-crew, hey?"
"That's it, likely. Look! There's a fellow waving a little blackflag. He's standing on the steps of the omnibus. There come thoseother two fellows. Now they're all talking together. Look at thefellow with the flag. Maybe he ain't waving it."
"That ain't a flag, is it? That's his coat. Why certainly,that's his coat."
"So it is. It's his coat. He's taken it off and is waving itaround his head. But would you look at him swing it."
"Oh, say, there isn't any life-saving station there. That's justa winter resort hotel omnibus that has brought over some of theboarders to see us drown."
"What's that idiot with the coat mean? What's he signaling,anyhow?"
"It looks as if he were trying to tell us to go north. Theremust be a life-saving station up there."
"No! He thinks we're fishing. Just giving us a merry hand. See?Ah, there, Willie."
"Well, I wish I could make something out of those signals. Whatdo you suppose he means?"
"He don't mean anything. He's just playing."
"Well, if he'd just signal us to try the surf again, or to go tosea and wait, or go north, or go south, or go to hell—therewould be some reason in it. But look at him. He just stands thereand keeps his coat revolving like a wheel. The ass!"
"There come more people."
"Now there's quite a mob. Look! Isn't that a boat?"
"Where? Oh, I see where you mean. No, that's no boat."
"That fellow is still waving his coat."
"He must think we like to see him do that. Why don't he quit it?It don't mean anything."
"I don't know. I think he is trying to make us go north. It mustbe that there's a life-saving station there somewhere."
"Say, he ain't tired yet. Look at 'im wave."
"Wonder how long he can keep that up. He's been revolving hiscoat ever since he caught sight of us. He's an idiot. Why aren'tthey getting men to bring a boat out? A fishing boat—one ofthose big yawls—could come out here all right. Why don't hedo something?"
"Oh, it's all right, now."
"They'll have a boat out here for us in less than no time, nowthat they've seen us."
A faint yellow tone came into the sky over the low land. Theshadows on the sea slowly deepened. The wind bore coldness with it,and the men began to shiver.
"Holy smoke!" said one, allowing his voice to express hisimpious mood, "if we keep on monkeying out here! If we've got toflounder out here all night!"
"Oh, we'll never have to stay here all night! Don't you worry.They've seen us now, and it won't be long before they'll comechasing out after us."
The shore grew dusky. The man waving a coat blended graduallyinto this gloom, and it swallowed in the same manner the omnibusand the group of people. The spray, when it dashed uproariouslyover the side, made the voyagers shrink and swear like men who werebeing branded.
"I'd like to catch the chump who waved the coat. I feel likesoaking him one, just for luck."
"Why? What did he do?"
"Oh, nothing, but then he seemed so damned cheerful."
In the meantime the oiler rowed, and then the correspondentrowed, and then the oiler rowed. Grey-faced and bowed forward, theymechanically, turn by turn, plied the leaden oars. The form of thelighthouse had vanished from the southern horizon, but finally apale star appeared, just lifting from the sea. The streaked saffronin the west passed before the all-merging darkness, and the sea tothe east was black. The land had vanished, and was expressed onlyby the low and drear thunder of the surf.
"If I am going to be drowned—if I am going to bedrowned—if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of theseven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far andcontemplate sand and trees? Was I brought here merely to have mynose dragged away as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese oflife?"
The patient captain, drooped over the water-jar, was sometimesobliged to speak to the oarsman.
"Keep her head up! Keep her head up!"
"'Keep her head up,' sir." The voices were weary and low.
This was surely a quiet evening. All save the oarsman layheavily and listlessly in the boat's bottom. As for him, his eyeswere just capable of noting the tall black waves that swept forwardin a most sinister silence, save for an occasional subdued growl ofa crest.
The cook's head was on a thwart, and he looked without interestat the water under his nose. He was deep in other scenes. Finallyhe spoke. "Billie," he murmured, dreamfully, "what kind of pie doyou like best?"
V
"Pie," said the oiler and the correspondent, agitatedly. "Don'ttalk about those things, blast you!"
"Well," said the cook, "I was just thinking about hamsandwiches, and—"
A night on the sea in an open boat is a long night. As darknesssettled finally, the shine of the light, lifting from the sea inthe south, changed to full gold. On the northern horizon a newlight appeared, a small bluish gleam on the edge of the waters.These two lights were the furniture of the world. Otherwise therewas nothing but waves.
Two men huddled in the stern, and distances were so magnificentin the dingey that the rower was enabled to keep his feet partlywarmed by thrusting them under his companions. Their legs indeedextended far under the rowing-seat until they touched the feet ofthe captain forward. Sometimes, despite the efforts of the tiredoarsman, a wave came piling into the boat, an icy wave of thenight, and the chilling water soaked them anew. They would twisttheir bodies for a moment and groan, and sleep the dead sleep oncemore, while the water in the boat gurgled about them as the craftrocked.
The plan of the oiler and the correspondent was for one to rowuntil he lost the ability, and then arouse the other from hissea-water couch in the bottom of the boat.
The oiler plied the oars until his head drooped forward, and theoverpowering sleep blinded him. And he rowed yet afterward. Then hetouched a man in the bottom of the boat, and called his name. "Willyou spell me for a little while?" he said, meekly.
"Sure, Billie," said the correspondent, awakening and dragginghimself to a sitting position. They exchanged places carefully, andthe oiler, cuddling down in the sea-water at the cook's side,seemed to go to sleep instantly.
The particular violence of the sea had ceased. The waves camewithout snarling. The obligation of the man at the oars was to keepthe boat headed so that the tilt of the rollers would not capsizeher, and to preserve her from filling when the crests rushed past.The black waves were silent and hard to be seen in the darkness.Often one was almost upon the boat before the oarsman wasaware.
In a low voice the correspondent addressed the captain. He wasnot sure that the captain was awake, although this iron man seemedto be always awake. "Captain, shall I keep her making for thatlight north, sir?"
The same steady voice answered him. "Yes. Keep it about twopoints off the port bow."
The cook had tied a life-belt around himself in order to geteven the warmth which this clumsy cork contrivance could donate,and he seemed almost stove-like when a rower, whose teethinvariably chattered wildly as soon as he ceased his labour,dropped down to sleep.
The correspondent, as he rowed, looked down at the two mensleeping under-foot. The cook's arm was around the oiler'sshoulders, and, with their fragmentary clothing and haggard faces,they were the babes of the sea, a grotesque rendering of the oldbabes in the wood.
Later he must have grown stupid at his work, for suddenly therewas a growling of water, and a crest came with a roar and a swashinto the boat, and it was a wonder that it did not set the cookafloat in his life-belt. The cook continued to sleep, but the oilersat up, blinking his eyes and shaking with the new cold.
"Oh, I'm awful sorry, Billie," said the correspondentcontritely.
"That's all right, old boy," said the oiler, and lay down againand was asleep.
Presently it seemed that even the captain dozed, and thecorrespondent thought that he was the one man afloat on all theoceans. The wind had a voice as it came over the waves, and it wassadder than the end.
There was a long, loud swishing astern of the boat, and agleaming trail of phosphorescence, like blue flame, was furrowed onthe black waters. It might have been made by a monstrous knife.
Then there came a stillness, while the correspondent breathedwith the open mouth and looked at the sea.
Suddenly there was another swish and another long flash ofbluish light, and this time it was alongside the boat, and mightalmost have been reached with an oar. The correspondent saw anenormous fin speed like a shadow through the water, hurling thecrystalline spray and leaving the long glowing trail.
The correspondent looked over his shoulder at the captain. Hisface was hidden, and he seemed to be asleep. He looked at the babesof the sea. They certainly were asleep. So, being bereft ofsympathy, he leaned a little way to one side and swore softly intothe sea.
But the thing did not then leave the vicinity of the boat. Aheador astern, on one side or the other, at intervals long or short,fled the long sparkling streak, and there was to be heard thewhiroo of the dark fin. The speed and power of the thing wasgreatly to be admired. It cut the water like a gigantic and keenprojectile.
The presence of this biding thing did not affect the man withthe same horror that it would if he had been a picnicker. He simplylooked at the sea dully and swore in an undertone.
Nevertheless, it is true that he did not wish to be alone. Hewished one of his companions to awaken by chance and keep himcompany with it. But the captain hung motionless over thewater-jar, and the oiler and the cook in the bottom of the boatwere plunged in slumber.
VI
"If I am going to be drowned—if I am going to bedrowned—if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of theseven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far andcontemplate sand and trees?"
During this dismal night, it may be remarked that a man wouldconclude that it was really the intention of the seven mad gods todrown him, despite the abominable injustice of it. For it wascertainly an abominable injustice to drown a man who had worked sohard, so hard. The man felt it would be a crime most unnatural.Other people had drowned at sea since galleys swarmed with paintedsails, but still—
When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him asimportant, and that she feels she would not maim the universe bydisposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple,and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and notemples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelletedwith his jeers.
Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot he feels, perhaps,the desire to confront a personification and indulge in pleas,bowed to one knee, and with hands supplicant, saying: "Yes, but Ilove myself."
A high cold star on a winter's night is the word he feels thatshe says to him. Thereafter he knows the pathos of hissituation.
The men in the dingey had not discussed these matters, but eachhad, no doubt, reflected upon them in silence and according to hismind. There was seldom any expression upon their faces save thegeneral one of complete weariness. Speech was devoted to thebusiness of the boat.
To chime the notes of his emotion, a verse mysteriously enteredthe correspondent's head. He had even forgotten that he hadforgotten this verse, but it suddenly was in his mind.
"A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman'stears;
But a comrade stood beside him, and he took that comrade'shand,
And he said: 'I shall never see my own, my native land.'"
In his childhood, the correspondent had been made acquaintedwith the fact that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,but he had never regarded the fact as important. Myriads of hisschool-fellows had informed him of the soldier's plight, but thedinning had naturally ended by making him perfectly indifferent. Hehad never considered it his affair that a soldier of the Legion laydying in Algiers, nor had it appeared to him as a matter forsorrow. It was less to him than the breaking of a pencil'spoint.
Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a human, living thing.It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast ofa poet, meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at the grate;it was an actuality—stern, mournful, and fine.
The correspondent plainly saw the soldier. He lay on the sandwith his feet out straight and still. While his pale left hand wasupon his chest in an attempt to thwart the going of his life, theblood came between his fingers. In the far Algerian distance, acity of low square forms was set against a sky that was faint withthe last sunset hues. The correspondent, plying the oars anddreaming of the slow and slower movements of the lips of thesoldier, was moved by a profound and perfectly impersonalcomprehension. He was sorry for the soldier of the Legion who laydying in Algiers.
The thing which had followed the boat and waited, had evidentlygrown bored at the delay. There was no longer to be heard the slashof the cut-water, and there was no longer the flame of the longtrail. The light in the north still glimmered, but it wasapparently no nearer to the boat. Sometimes the boom of the surfrang in the correspondent's ears, and he turned the craft seawardthen and rowed harder. Southward, some one had evidently built awatch-fire on the beach. It was too low and too far to be seen, butit made a shimmering, roseate reflection upon the bluff back of it,and this could be discerned from the boat. The wind came stronger,and sometimes a wave suddenly raged out like a mountain-cat, andthere was to be seen the sheen and sparkle of a broken crest.
The captain, in the bow, moved on his water-jar and sat erect."Pretty long night," he observed to the correspondent. He looked atthe shore. "Those life-saving people take their time."
"Did you see that shark playing around?"
"Yes, I saw him. He was a big fellow, all right."
"Wish I had known you were awake."
Later the correspondent spoke into the bottom of the boat.
"Billie!" There was a slow and gradual disentanglement. "Billie,will you spell me?"
"Sure," said the oiler.
As soon as the correspondent touched the cold comfortablesea-water in the bottom of the boat, and had huddled close to thecook's life-belt he was deep in sleep, despite the fact that histeeth played all the popular airs. This sleep was so good to himthat it was but a moment before he heard a voice call his name in atone that demonstrated the last stages of exhaustion. "Will youspell me?"
"Sure, Billie."
The light in the north had mysteriously vanished, but thecorrespondent took his course from the wide-awake captain.
Later in the night they took the boat farther out to sea, andthe captain directed the cook to take one oar at the stern and keepthe boat facing the seas. He was to call out if he should hear thethunder of the surf. This plan enabled the oiler and thecorrespondent to get respite together. "We'll give those boys achance to get into shape again," said the captain. They curled downand, after a few preliminary chatterings and trembles, slept oncemore the dead sleep. Neither knew they had bequeathed to the cookthe company of another shark, or perhaps the same shark.
As the boat caroused on the waves, spray occasionally bumpedover the side and gave them a fresh soaking, but this had no powerto break their repose. The ominous slash of the wind and the wateraffected them as it would have affected mummies.
"Boys," said the cook, with the notes of every reluctance in hisvoice, "she's drifted in pretty close. I guess one of you hadbetter take her to sea again." The correspondent, aroused, heardthe crash of the toppled crests.
As he was rowing, the captain gave him some whisky-and-water,and this steadied the chills out of him. "If I ever get ashore andanybody shows me even a photograph of an oar—"
At last there was a short conversation.
"Billie.... Billie, will you spell me?"
"Sure," said the oiler.
VII
When the correspondent again opened his eyes, the sea and thesky were each of the grey hue of the dawning. Later, carmine andgold was painted upon the waters. The morning appeared finally, inits splendour, with a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed onthe tips of the waves.
On the distant dunes were set many little black cottages, and atall white windmill reared above them. No man, nor dog, nor bicycleappeared on the beach. The cottages might have formed a desertedvillage.
The voyagers scanned the shore. A conference was held in theboat. "Well," said the captain, "if no help is coming we mightbetter try a run through the surf right away. If we stay out heremuch longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves atall." The others silently acquiesced in this reasoning. The boatwas headed for the beach. The correspondent wondered if none everascended the tall wind-tower, and if then they never lookedseaward. This tower was a giant, standing with its back to theplight of the ants. It represented in a degree, to thecorrespondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of theindividual—nature in the wind, and nature in the vision ofmen. She did not seem cruel to him then, nor beneficent, nortreacherous, nor wise. But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent.It is, perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressedwith the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerableflaws of his life, and have them taste wickedly in his mind andwish for another chance. A distinction between right and wrongseems absurdly clear to him, then, in this new ignorance of thegrave-edge, and he understands that if he were given anotheropportunity he would mend his conduct and his words, and be betterand brighter during an introduction or at a tea.
"Now, boys," said the captain, "she is going to swamp, sure. Allwe can do is to work her in as far as possible, and then when sheswamps, pile out and scramble for the beach. Keep cool now, anddon't jump until she swamps sure."
The oiler took the oars. Over his shoulders he scanned the surf."Captain," he said, "I think I'd better bring her about, and keepher head-on to the seas and back her in."
"All right, Billie," said the captain. "Back her in." The oilerswung the boat then and, seated in the stern, the cook and thecorrespondent were obliged to look over their shoulders tocontemplate the lonely and indifferent shore.
The monstrous in-shore rollers heaved the boat high until themen were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding upthe slanted beach. "We won't get in very close," said the captain.Each time a man could wrest his attention from the rollers, heturned his glance toward the shore, and in the expression of theeyes during this contemplation there was a singular quality. Thecorrespondent, observing the others, knew that they were notafraid, but the full meaning of their glances was shrouded.
As for himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally withthe fact. He tried to coerce his mind into thinking of it, but themind was dominated at this time by the muscles, and the musclessaid they did not care. It merely occurred to him that if he shoulddrown it would be a shame.
There were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation. Themen simply looked at the shore. "Now, remember to get well clear ofthe boat when you jump," said the captain.
Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderouscrash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon theboat.
"Steady now," said the captain. The men were silent. They turnedtheir eyes from the shore to the comber and waited. The boat slidup the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, andswung down the long back of the wave. Some water had been shippedand the cook bailed it out.
But the next crest crashed also. The tumbling boiling flood ofwhite water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular.Water swarmed in from all sides. The correspondent had his hands onthe gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that placehe swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wettingthem.
The little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled andsnuggled deeper into the sea.
"Bail her out, cook! Bail her out," said the captain.
"All right, captain," said the cook.
"Now, boys, the next one will do for us, sure," said the oiler."Mind to jump clear of the boat."
The third wave moved forward, huge, furious, implacable. Itfairly swallowed the dingey, and almost simultaneously the mentumbled into the sea. A piece of life-belt had lain in the bottomof the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held thisto his chest with his left hand.
The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that itwas colder than he had expected to find it off the coast ofFlorida. This appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enoughto be noted at the time. The coldness of the water was sad; it wastragic. This fact was somehow so mixed and confused with hisopinion of his own situation that it seemed almost a proper reasonfor tears. The water was cold.
When he came to the surface he was conscious of little but thenoisy water. Afterward he saw his companions in the sea. The oilerwas ahead in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly. Off tothe correspondent's left, the cook's great white and corked backbulged out of the water, and in the rear the captain was hangingwith his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dingey.
There is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and thecorrespondent wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea.
It seemed also very attractive, but the correspondent knew thatit was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece oflife-preserver lay under him, and sometimes he whirled down theincline of a wave as if he were on a hand-sled.
But finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel wasbeset with difficulty. He did not pause swimming to inquire whatmanner of current had caught him, but there his progress ceased.The shore was set before him like a bit of scenery on a stage, andhe looked at it and understood with his eyes each detail of it.
As the cook passed, much farther to the left, the captain wascalling to him, "Turn over on your back, cook! Turn over on yourback and use the oar."
"All right, sir." The cook turned on his back, and, paddlingwith an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe.
Presently the boat also passed to the left of the correspondentwith the captain clinging with one hand to the keel. He would haveappeared like a man raising himself to look over a board fence, ifit were not for the extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. Thecorrespondent marvelled that the captain could still hold toit.
They passed on, nearer to shore—the oiler, the cook, thecaptain—and following them went the water-jar, bouncing gailyover the seas.
The correspondent remained in the grip of this strange newenemy—a current. The shore, with its white slope of sand andits green bluff, topped with little silent cottages, was spreadlike a picture before him. It was very near to him then, but he wasimpressed as one who in a gallery looks at a scene from Brittany orHolland.
He thought: "I am going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it bepossible? Can it be possible?" Perhaps an individual must considerhis own death to be the final phenomenon of nature.
But later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this small deadlycurrent, for he found suddenly that he could again make progresstoward the shore. Later still, he was aware that the captain,clinging with one hand to the keel of the dingey, had his faceturned away from the shore and toward him, and was calling hisname. "Come to the boat! Come to the boat!"
In his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflectedthat when one gets properly wearied, drowning must really be acomfortable arrangement, a cessation of hostilities accompanied bya large degree of relief, and he was glad of it, for the main thingin his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporaryagony. He did not wish to be hurt.
Presently he saw a man running along the shore. He wasundressing with most remarkable speed. Coat, trousers, shirt,everything flew magically off him.
"Come to the boat," called the captain.
"All right, captain." As the correspondent paddled, he saw thecaptain let himself down to bottom and leave the boat. Then thecorrespondent performed his one little marvel of the voyage. Alarge wave caught him and flung him with ease and supreme speedcompletely over the boat and far beyond it. It struck him even thenas an event in gymnastics, and a true miracle of the sea. Anoverturned boat in the surf is not a plaything to a swimmingman.
The correspondent arrived in water that reached only to hiswaist, but his condition did not enable him to stand for more thana moment. Each wave knocked him into a heap, and the under-towpulled at him.
Then he saw the man who had been running and undressing, andundressing and running, come bounding into the water. He draggedashore the cook, and then waded towards the captain, but thecaptain waved him away, and sent him to the correspondent. He wasnaked, naked as a tree in winter, but a halo was about his head,and he shone like a saint. He gave a strong pull, and a long drag,and a bully heave at the correspondent's hand. The correspondent,schooled in the minor formulæ, said: "Thanks, old man." Butsuddenly the man cried: "What's that?" He pointed a swift finger.The correspondent said: "Go."
In the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. His foreheadtouched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of thesea.
The correspondent did not know all that transpired afterward.When he achieved safe ground he fell, striking the sand with eachparticular part of his body. It was as if he had dropped from aroof, but the thud was grateful to him.
It seems that instantly the beach was populated with men withblankets, clothes, and flasks, and women with coffee-pots and allthe remedies sacred to their minds. The welcome of the land to themen from the sea was warm and generous, but a still and drippingshape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land's welcome forit could only be the different and sinister hospitality of thegrave.
When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in themoonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea's voiceto the men on shore, and they felt that they could then beinterpreters.
I
Dark mesquit spread from horizon to horizon. There was no houseor horseman from which a mind could evolve a city or a crowd. Theworld was declared to be a desert and unpeopled. Sometimes,however, on days when no heat-mist arose, a blue shape, dim, of thesubstance of a spectre's veil, appeared in the south-west, and apondering sheep-herder might remember that there weremountains.
In the silence of these plains the sudden and childish bangingof a tin pan could have made an iron-nerved man leap into the air.The sky was ever flawless; the manoeuvring of clouds was an unknownpageant; but at times a sheep-herder could see, miles away, thelong, white streamers of dust rising from the feet of another'sflock, and the interest became intense.
Bill was arduously cooking his dinner, bending over the fire,and toiling like a blacksmith. A movement, a flash of strangecolour, perhaps, off in the bushes, caused him suddenly to turn hishead. Presently he arose, and, shading his eyes with his hand,stood motionless and gazing. He perceived at last a Mexicansheep-herder winding through the brush toward his camp.
"Hello!" shouted Bill.
The Mexican made no answer, but came steadily forward until hewas within some twenty yards. There he paused, and, folding hisarms, drew himself up in the manner affected by the villain in theplay. His serape muffled the lower part of his face, and his greatsombrero shaded his brow. Being unexpected and also silent, he hadsomething of the quality of an apparition; moreover, it was clearlyhis intention to be mysterious and devilish.
The American's pipe, sticking carelessly in the corner of hismouth, was twisted until the wrong side was uppermost, and he heldhis frying-pan poised in the air. He surveyed with evident surprisethis apparition in the mesquit. "Hello, José!" he said; "what's thematter?"
The Mexican spoke with the solemnity of funeral tollings: "Beel,you mus' geet off range. We want you geet off range. We no like.Un'erstan'? We no like."
"What you talking about?" said Bill. "No like what?"
"We no like you here. Un'erstan'? Too mooch. You mus' geet out.We no like. Un'erstan'?"
"Understand? No; I don't know what the blazes you're gittin'at." Bill's eyes wavered in bewilderment, and his jaw fell. "I mustgit out? I must git off the range? What you givin' us?"
The Mexican unfolded his serape with his small yellow hand. Uponhis face was then to be seen a smile that was gently, almostcaressingly murderous. "Beel," he said, "geet out!"
Bill's arm dropped until the frying-pan was at his knee. Finallyhe turned again toward the fire. "Go on, you dog-gone little yallerrat!" he said over his shoulder. "You fellers can't chase me offthis range. I got as much right here as anybody."
"Beel," answered the other in a vibrant tone, thrusting his headforward and moving one foot, "you geet out or we keel you."
"Who will?" said Bill.
"I—and the others." The Mexican tapped his breastgracefully.
Bill reflected for a time, and then he said: "You ain't got nomanner of license to warn me off'n this range, and I won't move arod. Understand? I've got rights, and I suppose if I don't see 'emthrough, no one is likely to give me a good hand and help me lickyou fellers, since I'm the only white man in half a day's ride.Now, look; if you fellers try to rush this camp, I'm goin' to plugabout fifty per cent. of the gentlemen present, sure. I'm goin' infor trouble, an' I'll git a lot of you. 'Nuther thing: if I was afine valuable caballero like you, I'd stay in the rear till theshootin' was done, because I'm goin' to make a particular p'int ofshootin' you through the chest." He grinned affably, and made agesture of dismissal.
As for the Mexican, he waved his hands in a consummateexpression of indifference. "Oh, all right," he said. Then, in atone of deep menace and glee, he added: "We will keel you eef youno geet. They have decide'."
"They have, have they?" said Bill. "Well, you tell them to go tothe devil!"
II
Bill had been a mine-owner in Wyoming, a great man, anaristocrat, one who possessed unlimited credit in the saloons downthe gulch. He had the social weight that could interrupt a lynchingor advise a bad man of the particular merits of a remotegeographical point. However, the fates exploded the toy balloonwith which they had amused Bill, and on the evening of the same dayhe was a professional gambler with ill-fortune dealing himunspeakable irritation in the shape of three big cards wheneveranother fellow stood pat. It is well here to inform the world thatBill considered his calamities of life all dwarfs in comparisonwith the excitement of one particular evening, when three kingscame to him with criminal regularity against a man who alwaysfilled a straight. Later he became a cow-boy, more weirdlyabandoned than if he had never been an aristocrat. By this time allthat remained of his former splendour was his pride, or his vanity,which was one thing which need not have remained. He killed theforeman of the ranch over an inconsequent matter as to which ofthem was a liar, and the midnight train carried him eastward. Hebecame a brakeman on the Union Pacific, and really gained highhonours in the hobo war that for many years has devastated thebeautiful railroads of our country. A creature of ill-fortunehimself, he practised all the ordinary cruelties upon these othercreatures of ill-fortune. He was of so fierce a mien that trampsusually surrendered at once whatever coin or tobacco they had intheir possession; and if afterward he kicked them from the train,it was only because this was a recognized treachery of the war uponthe hoboes. In a famous battle fought in Nebraska in 1879, he wouldhave achieved a lasting distinction if it had not been for adeserter from the United States army. He was at the head of aheroic and sweeping charge, which really broke the power of thehoboes in that country for three months; he had already worstedfour tramps with his own coupling-stick, when a stone thrown by theex-third baseman of F Troop's nine laid him flat on the prairie,and later enforced a stay in the hospital in Omaha. After hisrecovery he engaged with other railroads, and shuffled cars incountless yards. An order to strike came upon him in Michigan, andafterward the vengeance of the railroad pursued him until heassumed a name. This mask is like the darkness in which the burglarchooses to move. It destroys many of the healthy fears. It is asmall thing, but it eats that which we call our conscience. Theconductor of No. 419 stood in the caboose within two feet of Bill'snose, and called him a liar. Bill requested him to use a milderterm. He had not bored the foreman of Tin Can Ranch with any suchrequest, but had killed him with expedition. The conductor seemedto insist, and so Bill let the matter drop.
He became the bouncer of a saloon on the Bowery in New York.Here most of his fights were as successful as had been his brusheswith the hoboes in the West. He gained the complete admiration ofthe four clean bar-tenders who stood behind the great andglittering bar. He was an honoured man. He nearly killed BadHennessy, who, as a matter of fact, had more reputation thanability, and his fame moved up the Bowery and down the Bowery.
But let a man adopt fighting as his business, and the thoughtgrows constantly within him that it is his business to fight. Thesephrases became mixed in Bill's mind precisely as they are heremixed; and let a man get this idea in his mind, and defeat beginsto move toward him over the unknown ways of circumstances. Onesummer night three sailors from the U.S.S.Seattle sat inthe saloon drinking and attending to other people's affairs in anamiable fashion. Bill was a proud man since he had thrashed so manycitizens, and it suddenly occurred to him that the loud talk of thesailors was very offensive. So he swaggered upon their attention,and warned them that the saloon was the flowery abode of peace andgentle silence. They glanced at him in surprise, and without amoment's pause consigned him to a worse place than any stoker ofthem knew. Whereupon he flung one of them through the side doorbefore the others could prevent it. On the sidewalk there was ashort struggle, with many hoarse epithets in the air, and then Billslid into the saloon again. A frown of false rage was upon hisbrow, and he strutted like a savage king. He took a long yellownight-stick from behind the lunch-counter, and started importantlytoward the main doors to see that the incensed seamen did not againenter.
The ways of sailormen are without speech, and, together in thestreet, the three sailors exchanged no word, but they moved atonce. Landsmen would have required two years of discussion to gainsuch unanimity. In silence, and immediately, they seized a longpiece of scantling that lay handily. With one forward to guide thebattering-ram, and with two behind him to furnish the power, theymade a beautiful curve, and came down like the Assyrians on thefront door of that saloon.
Mystic and still mystic are the laws of fate. Bill, with hiskingly frown and his long night-stick, appeared at precisely thatmoment in the doorway. He stood like a statue of victory; his pridewas at its zenith; and in the same second this atrocious piece ofscantling punched him in the bulwarks of his stomach, and hevanished like a mist. Opinions differed as to where the end of thescantling landed him, but it was ultimately clear that it landedhim in south-western Texas, where he became a sheep-herder.
The sailors charged three times upon the plate-glass front ofthe saloon, and when they had finished, it looked as if it had beenthe victim of a rural fire company's success in saving it from theflames. As the proprietor of the place surveyed the ruins, heremarked that Bill was a very zealous guardian of property. As theambulance surgeon surveyed Bill, he remarked that the wound wasreally an excavation.
III
As his Mexican friend tripped blithely away, Bill turned with athoughtful face to his frying-pan and his fire. After dinner hedrew his revolver from its scarred old holster, and examined everypart of it. It was the revolver that had dealt death to theforeman, and it had also been in free fights in which it had dealtdeath to several or none. Bill loved it because its allegiance wasmore than that of man, horse, or dog. It questioned neither socialnor moral position; it obeyed alike the saint and the assassin. Itwas the claw of the eagle, the tooth of the lion, the poison of thesnake; and when he swept it from its holster, this minion smotewhere he listed, even to the battering of a far penny. Wherefore itwas his dearest possession, and was not to be exchanged insouth-western Texas for a handful of rubies, nor even the shame andhomage of the conductor of No. 419.
During the afternoon he moved through his monotony of work andleisure with the same air of deep meditation. The smoke of hissupper-time fire was curling across the shadowy sea of mesquit whenthe instinct of the plainsman warned him that the stillness, thedesolation, was again invaded. He saw a motionless horseman inblack outline against the pallid sky. The silhouette displayedserape and sombrero, and even the Mexican spurs as large as pies.When this black figure began to move toward the camp, Bill's handdropped to his revolver.
The horseman approached until Bill was enabled to see pronouncedAmerican features, and a skin too red to grow on a Mexican face.Bill released his grip on his revolver.
"Hello!" called the horseman.
"Hello!" answered Bill.
The horseman cantered forward. "Good evening," he said, as heagain drew rein.
"Good evenin'," answered Bill, without committing himself by toomuch courtesy.
For a moment the two men scanned each other in a way that is notill-mannered on the plains, where one is in danger of meetinghorse-thieves or tourists.
Bill saw a type which did not belong in the mesquit. The youngfellow had invested in some Mexican trappings of an expensive kind.Bill's eyes searched the outfit for some sign of craft, but therewas none. Even with his local regalia, it was clear that the youngman was of a far, black Northern city. He had discarded theenormous stirrups of his Mexican saddle; he used the small Englishstirrup, and his feet were thrust forward until the steel tightlygripped his ankles. As Bill's eyes travelled over the stranger,they lighted suddenly upon the stirrups and the thrust feet, andimmediately he smiled in a friendly way. No dark purpose coulddwell in the innocent heart of a man who rode thus on theplains.
As for the stranger, he saw a tattered individual with a tangleof hair and beard, and with a complexion turned brick-colour fromthe sun and whisky. He saw a pair of eyes that at first looked athim as the wolf looks at the wolf, and then became childlike,almost timid, in their glance. Here was evidently a man who hadoften stormed the iron walls of the city of success, and who nowsometimes valued himself as the rabbit values his prowess.
The stranger smiled genially, and sprang from his horse. "Well,sir, I suppose you will let me camp here with you to-night?"
"Eh?" said Bill.
"I suppose you will let me camp here with you to-night?"
Bill for a time seemed too astonished for words."Well,"—he answered, scowling in inhospitableannoyance—"well, I don't believe this here is a good place tocamp to-night, mister."
The stranger turned quickly from his saddle-girth.
"What?" he said in surprise. "You don't want me here? You don'twant me to camp here?"
Bill's feet scuffled awkwardly, and he looked steadily at acactus plant. "Well, you see, mister," he said, "I'd like yourcompany well enough, but—you see, some of these here greasersare goin' to chase me off the range to-night; and while I mightlike a man's company all right, I couldn't let him in for no suchgame when he ain't got nothin' to do with the trouble."
"Going to chase you off the range?" cried the stranger.
"Well, they said they were goin' to do it," said Bill.
"And—great heavens! will they kill you, do you think?"
"Don't know. Can't tell till afterwards. You see, they take somefeller that's alone like me, and then they rush his camp when heain't quite ready for 'em, and ginerally plug 'im with a sawed-offshot-gun load before he has a chance to git at 'em. They lay aroundand wait for their chance, and it comes soon enough. Of course afeller alone like me has got to let up watching some time. Maybethey ketch 'im asleep. Maybe the feller gits tired waiting, andgoes out in broad day, and kills two or three just to make thewhole crowd pile on him and settle the thing. I heard of a caselike that once. It's awful hard on a man's mind—to git a gangafter him."
"And so they're going to rush your camp to-night?" cried thestranger. "How do you know? Who told you?"
"Feller come and told me."
"And what are you going to do? Fight?"
"Don't see nothin' else to do," answered Bill gloomily, stillstaring at the cactus plant.
There was a silence. Finally the stranger burst out in an amazedcry. "Well, I never heard of such a thing in my life! How many ofthem are there?"
"Eight," answered Bill. "And now look-a-here; you ain't got nomanner of business foolin' around here just now, and you mightbetter lope off before dark. I don't ask no help in this here row.I know your happening along here just now don't give me no call onyou, and you better hit the trail."
"Well, why in the name of wonder don't you go get the sheriff?"cried the stranger.
"Oh, h—!" said Bill.
IV
Long, smoldering clouds spread in the western sky, and to theeast silver mists lay on the purple gloom of the wilderness.
Finally, when the great moon climbed the heavens and cast itsghastly radiance upon the bushes, it made a new and more brilliantcrimson of the campfire, where the flames capered merrily throughits mesquit branches, filling the silence with the fire chorus, anancient melody which surely bears a message of the inconsequence ofindividual tragedy—a message that is in the boom of the sea,the sliver of the wind through the grass-blades, the silken clashof hemlock boughs.
No figures moved in the rosy space of the camp, and the searchof the moonbeams failed to disclose a living thing in the bushes.There was no owl-faced clock to chant the weariness of the longsilence that brooded upon the plain.
The dew gave the darkness under the mesquit a velvet qualitythat made air seem nearer to water, and no eye could have seenthrough it the black things that moved like monster lizards towardthe camp. The branches, the leaves, that are fain to cry out whendeath approaches in the wilds, were frustrated by these uncannybodies gliding with the finesse of the escaping serpent. They creptforward to the last point where assuredly no frantic attempt of thefire could discover them, and there they paused to locate the prey.A romance relates the tale of the black cell hidden deep in theearth, where, upon entering, one sees only the little eyes ofsnakes fixing him in menaces. If a man could have approached acertain spot in the bushes, he would not have found it romanticallynecessary to have his hair rise. There would have been a sufficientexpression of horror in the feeling of the death-hand at the napeof his neck and in his rubber knee-joints.
Two of these bodies finally moved toward each other until foreach there grew out of the darkness a face placidly smiling withtender dreams of assassination. "The fool is asleep by the fire,God be praised!" The lips of the other widened in a grin ofaffectionate appreciation of the fool and his plight. There wassome signaling in the gloom, and then began a series of subtlerustlings, interjected often with pauses, during which no soundarose but the sound of faint breathing.
A bush stood like a rock in the stream of firelight, sending itslong shadow backward. With painful caution the little companytravelled along this shadow, and finally arrived at the rear of thebush. Through its branches they surveyed for a moment ofcomfortable satisfaction a form in a grey blanket extended on theground near the fire. The smile of joyful anticipation fledquickly, to give place to a quiet air of business. Two men liftedshot-guns with much of the barrels gone, and sighting these weaponsthrough the branches, pulled trigger together.
The noise of the explosions roared over the lonely mesquit as ifthese guns wished to inform the entire world; and as the grey smokefled, the dodging company back of the bush saw the blanketed formtwitching; whereupon they burst out in chorus in a laugh, and aroseas merry as a lot of banqueters. They gleefully gesturedcongratulations, and strode bravely into the light of the fire.
Then suddenly a new laugh rang from some unknown spot in thedarkness. It was a fearsome laugh of ridicule, hatred, ferocity. Itmight have been demoniac. It smote them motionless in their gleefulprowl, as the stern voice from the sky smites the legendarymalefactor. They might have been a weird group in wax, the light ofthe dying fire on their yellow faces, and shining athwart theireyes turned toward the darkness whence might come the unknown andthe terrible.
The thing in the grey blanket no longer twitched; but if theknives in their hands had been thrust toward it, each knife was nowdrawn back, and its owner's elbow was thrown upward, as if heexpected death from the clouds.
This laugh had so chained their reason that for a moment theyhad no wit to flee. They were prisoners to their terror. Thensuddenly the belated decision arrived, and with bubbling cries theyturned to run; but at that instant there was a long flash of red inthe darkness, and with the report one of the men shouted a bittershout, spun once, and tumbled headlong. The thick bushes failed toimpede the route of the others.
The silence returned to the wilderness. The tired flames faintlyillumined the blanketed thing and the flung corpse of the marauder,and sang the fire chorus, the ancient melody which bears themessage of the inconsequence of human tragedy.
V
"Now you are worse off than ever," said the young man,dry-voiced and awed.
"No, I ain't," said Bill rebelliously. "I'm one ahead."
After reflection, the stranger remarked, "Well, there's sevenmore."
They were cautiously and slowly approaching the camp. The sunwas flaring its first warming rays over the grey wilderness.Upreared twigs, prominent branches, shone with golden light, whilethe shadows under the mesquit were heavily blue.
Suddenly the stranger uttered a frightened cry. He had arrivedat a point whence he had, through openings in the thicket, a clearview of a dead face.
"Gosh!" said Bill, who at the next instant had seen the thing;"I thought at first it was that there José. That would have beenqueer, after what I told 'im yesterday."
They continued their way, the stranger wincing in his walk, andBill exhibiting considerable curiosity.
The yellow beams of the new sun were touching the grim hues ofthe dead Mexican's face, and creating there an inhuman effect,which made his countenance more like a mask of dulled brass. Onehand, grown curiously thinner, had been flung out regardlessly to acactus bush.
Bill walked forward and stood looking respectfully at the body."I know that feller; his name is Miguel. He—"
The stranger's nerves might have been in that condition whenthere is no backbone to the body, only a long groove. "Goodheavens!" he exclaimed, much agitated; "don't speak that way!"
"What way?" said Bill. "I only said his name was Miguel."
After a pause the stranger said:
"Oh, I know; but—" He waved his hand. "Lower your voice,or something. I don't know. This part of the business rattles me,don't you see?"
"Oh, all right," replied Bill, bowing to the other's mysteriousmood. But in a moment he burst out violently and loud in the mostextraordinary profanity, the oaths winging from him as the sparksgo from the funnel.
He had been examining the contents of the bundled grey blanket,and he had brought forth, among other things, his frying-pan. Itwas now only a rim with a handle; the Mexican volley had centeredupon it. A Mexican shot-gun of the abbreviated description isordinarily loaded with flat-irons, stove-lids, lead pipe, oldhorseshoes, sections of chain, window weights, railroad sleepersand spikes, dumb-bells, and any other junk which may be at hand.When one of these loads encounters a man vitally, it is likely tomake an impression upon him, and a cooking-utensil may be supposedto subside before such an assault of curiosities.
Bill held high his desecrated frying-pan, turning it this wayand that way. He swore until he happened to note the absence of thestranger. A moment later he saw him leading his horse from thebushes. In silence and sullenly the young man went about saddlingthe animal. Bill said, "Well, goin' to pull out?"
The stranger's hands fumbled uncertainly at the throat-latch.Once he exclaimed irritably, blaming the buckle for the tremblingof his fingers. Once he turned to look at the dead face with thelight of the morning sun upon it. At last he cried, "Oh, I know thewhole thing was all square enough—couldn't besquarer—but—somehow or other, that man there takes theheart out of me." He turned his troubled face for another look. "Heseems to be all the time calling me a—he makes me feel like amurderer."
"But," said Bill, puzzling, "you didn't shoot him, mister; Ishot him."
"I know; but I feel that way, somehow. I can't get rid ofit."
Bill considered for a time; then he said diffidently, "Mister,you're a eddycated man, ain't you?"
"What?"
"You're what they call a—a eddycated man, ain't you?"
The young man, perplexed, evidently had a question upon hislips, when there was a roar of guns, bright flashes, and in the airsuch hooting and whistling as would come from a swift flock ofsteam-boilers. The stranger's horse gave a mighty, convulsivespring, snorting wildly in its sudden anguish, fell upon its knees,scrambled afoot again, and was away in the uncanny death run knownto men who have seen the finish of brave horses.
"This comes from discussin' things," cried Bill angrily.
He had thrown himself flat on the ground facing the thicketwhence had come the firing. He could see the smoke winding over thebush-tops. He lifted his revolver, and the weapon came slowly upfrom the ground and poised like the glittering crest of a snake.Somewhere on his face there was a kind of smile, cynical, wicked,deadly, of a ferocity which at the same time had brought a deepflush to his face, and had caused two upright lines to glow in hiseyes.
"Hello, José!" he called, amiable for satire's sake. "Got yourold blunderbusses loaded up again yet?"
The stillness had returned to the plain. The sun's brilliantrays swept over the sea of mesquit, painting the far mists of thewest with faint rosy light, and high in the air some great birdfled toward the south.
"You come out here," called Bill, again addressing thelandscape, "and I'll give you some shootin' lessons. That ain't theway to shoot." Receiving no reply, he began to invent epithets andyell them at the thicket. He was something of a master of insult,and, moreover, he dived into his memory to bring forth imprecationstarnished with age, unused since fluent Bowery days. The occupationamused him, and sometimes he laughed so that it was uncomfortablefor his chest to be against the ground.
Finally the stranger, prostrate near him, said wearily, "Oh,they've gone."
"Don't you believe it," replied Bill, sobering swiftly. "They'rethere yet—every man of 'em."
"How do you know?"
"Because I do. They won't shake us so soon. Don't put your headup, or they'll get you, sure."
Bill's eyes, meanwhile, had not wavered from their scrutiny ofthe thicket in front. "They're there all right; don't you forgetit. Now you listen." So he called out: "José! Ojo, José! Speak up,hombre! I want have talk. Speak up, you yaller cuss,you!"
Whereupon a mocking voice from off in the bushes said,"Señor?"
"There," said Bill to his ally; "didn't I tell you? The wholebatch." Again he lifted his voice. "José—look—ain't yougittin' kinder tired? You better go home, you fellers, and git somerest."
The answer was a sudden furious chatter of Spanish, eloquentwith hatred, calling down upon Bill all the calamities which lifeholds. It was as if some one had suddenly enraged a cageful of wildcats. The spirits of all the revenges which they had imagined wereloosened at this time, and filled the air.
"They're in a holler," said Bill, chuckling, "or there'd beshootin'."
Presently he began to grow angry. His hidden enemies called himnine kinds of coward, a man who could fight only in the dark, ababy who would run from the shadows of such noble Mexicangentlemen, a dog that sneaked. They described the affair of theprevious night, and informed him of the base advantage he had takenof their friend. In fact, they in all sincerity endowed him withevery quality which he no less earnestly believed them to possess.One could have seen the phrases bite him as he lay there on theground fingering his revolver.
VI
It is sometimes taught that men do the furious and desperatething from an emotion that is as even and placid as the thoughts ofa village clergyman on Sunday afternoon. Usually, however, it is tobe believed that a panther is at the time born in the heart, andthat the subject does not resemble a man picking mulberries.
"B' G—!" said Bill, speaking as from a throat filled withdust, "I'll go after 'em in a minute."
"Don't you budge an inch!" cried the stranger, sternly. "Don'tyou budge!"
"Well," said Bill, glaring at the bushes—"well—"
"Put your head down!" suddenly screamed the stranger, in whitealarm. As the guns roared, Bill uttered a loud grunt, and for amoment leaned panting on his elbow, while his arm shook like atwig. Then he upreared like a great and bloody spirit of vengeance,his face lighted with the blaze of his last passion. The Mexicanscame swiftly and in silence.
The lightning action of the next few moments was of the fabricof dreams to the stranger. The muscular struggle may not be real tothe drowning man. His mind may be fixed on the far, straightshadows back of the stars, and the terror of them. And so thefight, and his part in it, had to the stranger only the quality ofa picture half drawn. The rush of feet, the spatter of shots, thecries, the swollen faces seen like masks on the smoke, resembled ahappening of the night.
And yet afterward certain lines, forms, lived out so stronglyfrom the incoherence that they were always in his memory.
He killed a man, and the thought went swiftly by him, like thefeather on the gale, that it was easy to kill a man.
Moreover, he suddenly felt for Bill, this grimy sheep-herder,some deep form of idolatry. Bill was dying, and the dignity of lastdefeat, the superiority of him who stands in his grave, was in thepose of the lost sheep-herder.
* * *
The stranger sat on the ground idly mopping the sweat andpowder-stain from his brow. He wore the gentle idiot smile of anaged beggar as he watched three Mexicans limping and staggering inthe distance. He noted at this time that one who still possessed aserape had from it none of the grandeur of the cloaked Spaniard,but that against the sky the silhouette resembled a cornucopia ofchildhood's Christmas.
They turned to look at him, and he lifted his weary arm tomenace them with his revolver. They stood for a moment bandedtogether, and hooted curses at him.
Finally he arose, and, walking some paces, stooped to loosenBill's grey hands from a throat. Swaying as if slightly drunk, hestood looking down into the still face.
Struck suddenly with a thought, he went about with dulled eyeson the ground, until he plucked his gaudy blanket from where it laydirty from trampling feet. He dusted it carefully, and thenreturned and laid it over Bill's form. There he again stoodmotionless, his mouth just agape and the same stupid glance in hiseyes, when all at once he made a gesture of fright and lookedwildly about him.
He had almost reached the thicket when he stopped, smitten withalarm. A body contorted, with one arm stiff in the air, lay in hispath. Slowly and warily he moved around it, and in a moment thebushes, nodding and whispering, their leaf-faces turned toward thescene behind him, swung and swung again into stillness and thepeace of the wilderness.
I
The great Pullman was whirling onward with such dignity ofmotion that a glance from the window seemed simply to prove thatthe plains of Texas were pouring eastward. Vast flats of greengrass, dull-hued spaces of mesquit and cactus, little groups offrame houses, woods of light and tender trees, all were sweepinginto the east, sweeping over the horizon, a precipice.
A newly-married pair had boarded this train at San Antonio. Theman's face was reddened from many days in the wind and sun, and adirect result of his new black clothes was that his brick-colouredhands were constantly performing in a most conscious fashion. Fromtime to time he looked down respectfully at his attire. He sat witha hand on each knee, like a man waiting in a barber's shop. Theglances he devoted to other passengers were furtive and shy.
The bride was not pretty, nor was she very young. She wore adress of blue cashmere, with small reservations of velvet here andthere, and with steel buttons abounding. She continually twistedher head to regard her puff-sleeves, very stiff, straight, andhigh. They embarrassed her. It was quite apparent that she hadcooked, and that she expected to cook, dutifully. The blushescaused by the careless scrutiny of some passengers as she hadentered the car were strange to see upon this plain, under-classcountenance, which was drawn in placid, almost emotionlesslines.
They were evidently very happy. "Ever been in a parlour-carbefore?" he asked, smiling with delight.
"No," she answered; "I never was. It's fine, ain't it?"
"Great. And then, after a while, we'll go forward to the diner,and get a big lay-out. Finest meal in the world. Charge, adollar."
"Oh, do they?" cried the bride. "Charge a dollar? Why, that'stoo much—for us—ain't it, Jack?"
"Not this trip, anyhow," he answered bravely. "We're going to gothe whole thing."
Later, he explained to her about the train. "You see, it's athousand miles from one end of Texas to the other, and this trainruns right across it, and never stops but four times."
He had the pride of an owner. He pointed out to her the dazzlingfittings of the coach, and, in truth, her eyes opened wider as shecontemplated the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass,silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as thesurface of a pool of oil. At one end a bronze figure sturdily helda support for a separated chamber, and at convenient places on theceiling were frescoes in olive and silver.
To the minds of the pair, their surroundings reflected the gloryof their marriage that morning in San Antonio. This was theenvironment of their new estate, and the man's face, in particular,beamed with an elation that made him appear ridiculous to the negroporter. This individual at times surveyed them from afar with anamused and superior grin. On other occasions he bullied them withskill in ways that did not make it exactly plain to them that theywere being bullied. He subtly used all the manners of the mostunconquerable kind of snobbery. He oppressed them, but of thisoppression they had small knowledge, and they speedily forgot thatunfrequently a number of travellers covered them with stares ofderisive enjoyment. Historically there was supposed to be somethinginfinitely humorous in their situation.
"We are due in Yellow Sky at 3.42," he said, looking tenderlyinto her eyes.
"Oh, are we?" she said, as if she had not been aware of it.
To evince surprise at her husband's statement was part of herwifely amiability. She took from a pocket a little silver watch,and as she held it before her, and stared at it with a frown ofattention, the new husband's face shone.
"I bought it in San Anton' from a friend of mine," he told hergleefully.
"It's seventeen minutes past twelve," she said, looking up athim with a kind of shy and clumsy coquetry.
A passenger, noting this play, grew excessively sardonic, andwinked at himself in one of the numerous mirrors.
At last they went to the dining-car. Two rows of negro waitersin dazzling white suits surveyed their entrance with the interest,and also the equanimity, of men who had been forewarned. The pairfell to the lot of a waiter who happened to feel pleasure insteering them through their meal. He viewed them with the manner ofa fatherly pilot, his countenance radiant with benevolence. Thepatronage entwined with the ordinary deference was not palpable tothem. And yet as they returned to their coach they showed in theirfaces a sense of escape.
To the left, miles down a long purple slope, was a little ribbonof mist, where moved the keening Rio Grande. The train wasapproaching it at an angle, and the apex was Yellow Sky. Presentlyit was apparent that as the distance from Yellow Sky grew shorter,the husband became commensurately restless. His brick-red handswere more insistent in their prominence. Occasionally he was evenrather absent-minded and far away when the bride leaned forward andaddressed him.
As a matter of truth, Jack Potter was beginning to find theshadow of a deed weigh upon him like a leaden slab. He, thetown-marshal of Yellow Sky, a man known, liked, and feared in hiscorner, a prominent person, had gone to San Antonio to meet a girlhe believed he loved, and there, after the usual prayers, hadactually induced her to marry him without consulting Yellow Sky forany part of the transaction. He was now bringing his bride beforean innocent and unsuspecting community.
Of course, people in Yellow Sky married as it pleased them inaccordance with a general custom, but such was Potter's thought ofhis duty to his friends, or of their idea of his duty, or of anunspoken form which does not control men in these matters, that hefelt he was heinous. He had committed an extraordinary crime. Faceto face with this girl in San Antonio, and spurred by his sharpimpulse, he had gone headlong over all the social hedges. At SanAntonio he was like a man hidden in the dark. A knife to sever anyfriendly duty, any form, was easy to his hand in that remote city.But the hour of Yellow Sky, the hour of daylight, wasapproaching.
He knew full well that his marriage was an important thing tohis town. It could only be exceeded by the burning of the newhotel. His friends would not forgive him. Frequently he hadreflected upon the advisability of telling them by telegraph, but anew cowardice had been upon him. He feared to do it. And now thetrain was hurrying him toward a scene of amazement, glee, reproach.He glanced out of the window at the line of haze swinging slowly intoward the train.
Yellow Sky had a kind of brass band which played painfully tothe delight of the populace. He laughed without heart as he thoughtof it. If the citizens could dream of his prospective arrival withhis bride, they would parade the band at the station, and escortthem, amid cheers and laughing congratulations, to his adobehome.
He resolved that he would use all the devices of speed andplainscraft in making the journey from the station to his house.Once within that safe citadel, he could issue some sort of a vocalbulletin, and then not go among the citizens until they had time towear off a little of their enthusiasm.
The bride looked anxiously at him. "What's worrying you,Jack?"
He laughed again. "I'm not worrying, girl. I'm only thinking ofYellow Sky."
She flushed in comprehension.
A sense of mutual guilt invaded their minds, and developed afiner tenderness. They looked at each other with eyes softly aglow.But Potter often laughed the same nervous laugh. The flush upon thebride's face seemed quite permanent.
The traitor to the feelings of Yellow Sky narrowly watched thespeeding landscape.
"We're nearly there," he said.
Presently the porter came and announced the proximity ofPotter's home. He held a brush in his hand, and, with all his airysuperiority gone, he brushed Potter's new clothes, as the latterslowly turned this way and that way. Potter fumbled out a coin, andgave it to the porter as he had seen others do. It was a heavy andmuscle-bound business, as that of a man shoeing his firsthorse.
The porter took their bag, and, as the train began to slow, theymoved forward to the hooded platform of the car. Presently the twoengines and their long string of coaches rushed into the station ofYellow Sky.
"They have to take water here," said Potter, from a constrictedthroat, and in mournful cadence as one announcing death. Before thetrain stopped his eye had swept the length of the platform, and hewas glad and astonished to see there was no one upon it but thestation-agent, who, with a slightly hurried and anxious air, waswalking toward the water-tanks. When the train had halted, theporter alighted first and placed in position a little temporarystep.
"Come on, girl," said Potter, hoarsely.
As he helped her down, they each laughed on a false note. Hetook the bag from the negro, and bade his wife cling to his arm. Asthey slunk rapidly away, his hang-dog glance perceived that theywere unloading the two trunks, and also that the station-agent, farahead, near the baggage-car, had turned, and was running towardhim, making gestures. He laughed, and groaned as he laughed, whenhe noted the first effect of his marital bliss upon Yellow Sky. Hegripped his wife's arm firmly to his side, and they fled. Behindthem the porter stood chuckling fatuously.
II
The California Express on the Southron Railway was due at YellowSky in twenty-one minutes. There were six men at the bar of theWeary Gentleman saloon. One was a drummer, who talked a great dealand rapidly; three were Texans, who did not care to talk at thattime; and two were Mexican sheep-herders, who did not talk as ageneral practice in the Weary Gentleman saloon. The bar-keeper'sdog lay on the board-walk that crossed in front of the door. Hishead was on his paws, and he glanced drowsily here and there withthe constant vigilance of a dog that is kicked on occasion. Acrossthe sandy street were some vivid green grass plots, so wonderful inappearance amid the sands that burned near them in a blazing sun,that they caused a doubt in the mind. They exactly resembled thegrass-mats used to represent lawns on the stage. At the cooler endof the railway-station a man without a coat sat in a tilted chairand smoked his pipe. The fresh-cut bank of the Rio Grande circlednear the town, and there could be seen beyond it a greatplum-coloured plain of mesquit.
Save for the busy drummer and his companions in the saloon,Yellow Sky was dozing. The new-comer leaned gracefully upon thebar, and recited many tales with the confidence of a bard who hascome upon a new field.
"And at the moment that the old man fell down-stairs, with thebureau in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttlesof coal, and, of course—"
The drummer's tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenlyappeared in the open door. He cried—
"Scratchy Wilson's drunk, and has turned loose with bothhands."
The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses, and faded outof the rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered—
"All right, old man. S'pose he has. Come and have a drink,anyhow."
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in everyskull in the room, that the drummer was obliged to see itsimportance. All had become instantly morose.
"Say," said he, mystified, "what is this?"
His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquentspeech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
"It means, my friend," he answered, as he came into the saloon,"that for the next two hours this town won't be a healthresort."
The bar-keeper went to the door, and locked and barred it.Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters andbarred them. Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was upon theplace. The drummer was looking from one to another.
"But say," he cried, "what is this, anyhow? You don't mean thereis going to be a gun-fight?"
"Don't know whether there'll be a fight or not," answered oneman grimly. "But there'll be some shootin'—some goodshootin'."
The young man who had warned them waved his hand. "Oh, there'llbe a fight, fast enough, if any one wants it. Anybody can get afight out there in the street. There's a fight just waiting."
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of aforeigner, and a perception of personal danger.
"What did you say his name was?" he asked.
"Scratchy Wilson," they answered in chorus.
"And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does thishappen often? Does he rampage round like this once a week or so?Can he break in that door?"
"No, he can't break down that door," replied the bar-keeper."He's tried it three times. But when he comes you'd better lay downon the floor, stranger. He's dead sure to shoot at it, and a bulletmay come through."
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye on the door. The timehad not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but as a minorprecaution he sidled near to the wall.
"Will he kill anybody?" he said again.
The men laughed low and scornfully at the question.
"He's out to shoot, and he's out for trouble. Don't see any goodin experimentin' with him."
"But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?"
A man responded—"Why, he and Jack Potter—"
But, in chorus, the other men interrupted—"Jack Potter'sin San Anton'."
"Well, who is he? What's he got to do with it?"
"Oh, he's the town-marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy whenhe gets on one of these tears."
"Whow!" said the drummer, mopping his brow. "Nice job he'sgot."
The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummerwished to ask further questions, which were born of an increasinganxiety and bewilderment, but when he attempted them, the menmerely looked at him in irritation, and motioned him to remainsilent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In the deep shadows ofthe room their eyes shone as they listened for sounds from thestreet. One man made three gestures at the bar-keeper, and thelatter, moving like a ghost, handed him a glass and a bottle. Theman poured a full glass of whisky, and set down the bottlenoiselessly. He gulped the whisky in a swallow, and turned againtoward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that thebar-keeper, without a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneaththe bar. Later, he saw this individual beckoning to him, so hetip-toed across the room.
"You better come with me back of the bar."
"No, thanks," said the drummer, perspiring. "I'd rather be whereI can make a break for the back-door."
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly but peremptorygesture. The drummer obeyed it, and finding himself seated on abox, with his head below the level of the bar, balm was laid uponhis soul at sight of various zinc and copper fittings that bore aresemblance to plate armour. The bar-keeper took a seat comfortablyupon an adjacent box.
"You see," he whispered, "this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonderwith a gun—a perfect wonder—and when he goes on thewar-trail, we hunt our holes—naturally. He's about the lastone of the old gang that used to hang out along the river here.He's a terror when he's drunk. When he's sober he's allright—kind of simple—wouldn't hurt a fly—nicestfellow in town. But when he's drunk—whoo!"
There were periods of stillness.
"I wish Jack Potter was back from San Anton'," said thebar-keeper. "He shot Wilson up once—in the leg—and hewould sail in and pull out the kinks in this thing."
Presently they heard from a distance the sound of a shot,followed by three wild yells. It instantly removed a bond from themen in the darkened saloon. There was a shuffling of feet. Theylooked at each other.
"Here he comes," they said.
III
A man in a maroon-coloured flannel shirt, which had beenpurchased for purposes of decoration, and made, principally, bysome Jewish women on the east side of New York, rounded a cornerand walked into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. Ineither hand the man held a long, heavy blue-black revolver. Oftenhe yelled, and these cries rang through a semblance of a desertedvillage, shrilly flying over the roofs in a volume that seemed tohave no relation to the ordinary vocal strength of a man. It was asif the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him.These cries of ferocious challenge rang against walls of silence.And his boots had red tops with gilded imprints, of the kindbeloved in winter by little sledging boys on the hillsides of NewEngland.
The man's face flamed in a rage begot of whisky. His eyes,rolling and yet keen for ambush, hunted the still door-ways andwindows. He walked with the creeping movement of the midnight cat.As it occurred to him, he roared menacing information. The longrevolvers in his hands were as easy as straws; they were moved withan electric swiftness. The little fingers of each hand playedsometimes in a musician's way. Plain from the low collar of theshirt, the cords of his neck straightened and sank as passion movedhim. The only sounds were his terrible invitations. The calm adobespreserved their demeanour at the passing of this small thing in themiddle of the street.
There was no offer of fight—no offer of fight. The mancalled to the sky. There were no attractions. He bellowed and fumedand swayed his revolver here and everywhere.
The dog of the bar-keeper of the Weary Gentleman saloon had notappreciated the advance of events. He yet lay dozing in front ofhis master's door. At sight of the dog, the man paused and raisedhis revolver humorously. At sight of the man, the dog sprang up andwalked diagonally away, with a sullen head and growling. The manyelled, and the dog broke into a gallop. As it was about to enteran alley, there was a loud noise, a whistling, and something spatthe ground directly before it. The dog screamed, and, wheeling interror, galloped headlong in a new direction. Again there was anoise, a whistling, and sand was kicked viciously before it.Fear-stricken, the dog turned and flurried like an animal in a pen.The man stood laughing, his weapons at his hips.
Ultimately the man was attracted by the closed door of the WearyGentleman saloon. He went to it, and, hammering with a revolver,demanded drink.
The door remaining imperturbable, he picked a bit of paper fromthe walk, and nailed it to the framework with a knife. He thenturned his back contemptuously upon this popular resort, and,walking to the opposite side of the street and spinning there onhis heel quickly and lithely, fired at the bit of paper. He missedit by a half-inch. He swore at himself, and went away. Later, hecomfortably fusiladed the windows of his most intimate friend. Theman was playing with this town. It was a toy for him.
But still there was no offer of fight. The name of Jack Potter,his ancient antagonist, entered his mind, and he concluded that itwould be a glad thing if he should go to Potter's house, and, bybombardment, induce him to come out and fight. He moved in thedirection of his desire, chanting Apache scalp music.
When he arrived at it, Potter's house presented the same still,calm front as had the other adobes. Taking up a strategic position,the man howled a challenge. But this house regarded him as might agreat stone god. It gave no sign. After a decent wait, the manhowled further challenges, mingling with them wonderfulepithets.
Presently there came the spectacle of a man churning himselfinto deepest rage over the immobility of a house. He fumed at it asthe winter wind attacks a prairie cabin in the north. To thedistance there should have gone the sound of a tumult like thefighting of two hundred Mexicans. As necessity bade him, he pausedfor breath or to reload his revolvers.
IV
Potter and his bride walked sheepishly and with speed. Sometimesthey laughed together shamefacedly and low.
"Next corner, dear," he said finally.
They put forth the efforts of a pair walking bowed against astrong wind. Potter was about to raise a finger to point the firstappearance of the new home, when, as they circled the corner, theycame face to face with a man in a maroon-coloured shirt, who wasfeverishly pushing cartridges into a large revolver. Upon theinstant the man dropped this revolver to the ground, and, likelightning, whipped another from its holster. The second weapon wasaimed at the bridegroom's chest.
There was a silence. Potter's mouth seemed to be merely a gravefor his tongue. He exhibited an instinct to at once loosen his armfrom the woman's grip, and he dropped the bag to the sand. As forthe bride, her face had gone as yellow as old cloth. She was aslave to hideous rites, gazing at the apparitional snake.
The two men faced each other at a distance of three paces. He ofthe revolver smiled with a new and quiet ferocity. "Tried to sneakup on me!" he said. "Tried to sneak up on me!" His eyes grew morebaleful. As Potter made a slight movement, the man thrust hisrevolver venomously forward. "No; don't you do it, Jack Potter.Don't you move a finger towards a gun just yet. Don't you move aneyelash. The time has come for me to settle with you, and I'm goingto do it my own way, and loaf along with no interferin'. So if youdon't want a gun bent on you, just mind what I tell you."
Potter looked at his enemy. "I ain't got a gun on me, Scratchy,"he said. "Honest, I ain't." He was stiffening and steadying, butyet somewhere at the back of his mind a vision of the Pullmanfloated—the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass,silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as thesurface of a pool of oil—all the glory of their marriage, theenvironment of the new estate.
"You know I fight when it comes to fighting, Scratchy Wilson,but I ain't got a gun on me. You'll have to do all the shootin'yourself."
His enemy's face went livid. He stepped forward, and lashed hisweapon to and fro before Potter's chest.
"Don't you tell me you ain't got no gun on you, you whelp. Don'ttell me no lie like that. There ain't a man in Texas ever seen youwithout no gun. Don't take me for no kid."
His eyes blazed with light and his throat worked like apump.
"I ain't takin' you for no kid," answered Potter. His heels hadnot moved an inch backward. "I'm takin' you for a ——fool. I tell you I ain't got a gun, and I ain't. If you're goin' toshoot me up, you'd better begin now. You'll never get a chance likethis again."
So much enforced reasoning had told on Wilson's rage. He wascalmer.
"If you ain't got a gun, why ain't you got a gun?" he sneered."Been to Sunday school?"
"I ain't got a gun because I've just come from San Anton' withmy wife. I'm married," said Potter. "And if I'd thought there wasgoing to be any galoots like you prowling around when I brought mywife home, I'd had a gun, and don't you forget it."
"Married!" said Scratchy, not at all comprehending.
"Yes, married! I'm married," said Potter, distinctly.
"Married!" said Scratchy; seeming for the first time he saw thedrooping drowning woman at the other man's side. "No!" he said. Hewas like a creature allowed a glimpse of another world. He moved apace backward, and his arm with the revolver dropped to his side."Is this—is this the lady?" he asked.
"Yes, this is the lady," answered Potter.
There was another period of silence.
"Well," said Wilson at last, slowly, "I s'pose it's all offnow?"
"It's all off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didn't makethe trouble."
Potter lifted his valise.
"Well, I 'low it's off, Jack," said Wilson. He was looking atthe ground. "Married!" He was not a student of chivalry; it wasmerely that in the presence of this foreign condition he was asimple child of the earlier plains. He picked up his starboardrevolver, and placing both weapons in their holsters, he went away.His feet made funnel-shaped tracks in the heavy sand.
They were youths of subtle mind. They were very wicked accordingto report, and yet they managed to have it reflect great creditupon them. They often had the well-informed and the great talkersof the American colony engaged in reciting their misdeeds, andfacts relating to their sins were usually told with a flourish ofawe and fine admiration.
One was from San Francisco and one was from New York, but theyresembled each other in appearance. This is an idiosyncrasy ofgeography.
They were never apart in the City of Mexico, at any rate,excepting perhaps when one had retired to his hotel for a respite,and then the other was usually camped down at the office sending upservants with clamorous messages. "Oh, get up and come ondown."
They were two lads—they were called the kids—and farfrom their mothers. Occasionally some wise man pitied them, but heusually was alone in his wisdom. The other folk frankly weretransfixed at the splendour of the audacity and endurance of thesekids.
"When do those boys ever sleep?" murmured a man as he viewedthem entering a café about eight o'clock one morning. Their smoothinfantile faces looked bright and fresh enough, at any rate. "Jimtold me he saw them still at it about 4.30 this morning."
"Sleep!" ejaculated a companion in a glowing voice. "They neversleep! They go to bed once in every two weeks." His boast of itseemed almost a personal pride.
"They'll end with a crash, though, if they keep it up at thispace," said a gloomy voice from behind a newspaper.
The Café Colorado has a front of white and gold, in which is setlarger plate-glass windows than are commonly to be found in Mexico.Two little wings of willow flip-flapping incessantly serve asdoors. Under them small stray dogs go furtively into the café, andare shied into the street again by the waiters. On the side-walkthere is always a decorative effect of loungers, ranging from thenewly-arrived and superior tourist to the old veteran of the silvermines bronzed by violent suns. They contemplate with various shadesof interest the show of the street—the red, purple, dustywhite, glaring forth against the walls in the furious sunshine.
One afternoon the kids strolled into the Café Colorado. Ahalf-dozen of the men who sat smoking and reading with a sort ofParisian effect at the little tables which lined two sides of theroom, looked up and bowed smiling, and although this coming of thekids was anything but an unusual event, at least a dozen menwheeled in their chairs to stare after them. Three waiters polishedtables, and moved chairs noisily, and appeared to be eager.Distinctly these kids were of importance.
Behind the distant bar, the tall form of old Pop himself awaitedthem smiling with broad geniality. "Well, my boys, how are you?" hecried in a voice of profound solicitude. He allowed five or six ofhis customers to languish in the care of Mexican bartenders, whilehe himself gave his eloquent attention to the kids, lending all thedignity of a great event to their arrival. "How are the boysto-day, eh?"
"You're a smooth old guy," said one, eying him. "Are you givingus this welcome so we won't notice it when you push your worstwhisky at us?"
Pop turned in appeal from one kid to the other kid. "There, now,hear that, will you?" He assumed an oratorical pose. "Why, my boys,you always get the best that this house has got."
"Yes, we do!" The kids laughed. "Well, bring it out, anyhow, andif it's the same you sold us last night, we'll grab your cashregister and run."
Pop whirled a bottle along the bar and then gazed at it with arapt expression. "Fine as silk," he murmured. "Now just taste that,and if it isn't the best whisky you ever put in your face, why I'ma liar, that's all."
The kids surveyed him with scorn, and poured their allowances.Then they stood for a time insulting Pop about his whisky. "Usuallyit tastes exactly like new parlour furniture," said the SanFrancisco kid. "Well, here goes, and you want to look out for yourcash register."
"Your health, gentlemen," said Pop with a grand air, and as hewiped his bristling grey moustaches he wagged his head withreference to the cash register question. "I could catch you beforeyou got very far."
"Why, are you a runner?" said one derisively.
"You just bank on me, my boy," said Pop, with deep emphasis."I'm a flier."
The kids sat down their glasses suddenly and looked at him. "Youmust be," they said. Pop was tall and graceful and magnificent inmanner, but he did not display those qualities of form which meanspeed in the animal. His hair was grey; his face was round and fatfrom much living. The buttons of his glittering white waistcoatformed a fine curve, so that if the concave surface of a piece ofbarrel-hoop had been laid against Pop it would have touched everybutton. "You must be," observed the kids again.
"Well, you can laugh all you like, but—no jolly now, boys,I tell you I'm a winner. Why, I bet you I can skin anything in thistown on a square go. When I kept my place in Eagle Pass therewasn't anybody who could touch me. One of these sure things camedown from San Anton'. Oh, he was a runner he was. One of thesepeople with wings. Well, I skinned 'im. What? Certainly I did.Never touched me."
The kids had been regarding him in grave silence, but at thismoment they grinned, and said quite in chorus, "Oh, you oldliar!"
Pop's voice took on a whining tone of earnestness. "Boys, I'mtelling it to you straight. I'm a flier."
One of the kids had had a dreamy cloud in his eye and he criedout suddenly—"Say, what a joke to play this on Freddie."
The other jumped ecstatically. "Oh, wouldn't it though. Say hewouldn't do a thing but howl! He'd go crazy."
They looked at Pop as if they longed to be certain that he was,after all, a runner. "Now, Pop, on the level," said one of themwistfully, "can you run?"
"Boys," swore Pop, "I'm a peach! On the dead level, I'm apeach."
"By golly, I believe the old Indian can run," said one to theother, as if they were alone in confidence.
"That's what I can," cried Pop.
The kids said—"Well, so long, old man." They went to atable and sat down. They ordered a salad. They were always orderingsalads. This was because one kid had a wild passion for salads, andthe other didn't care. So at any hour of the day they might be seenordering a salad. When this one came they went into a sort ofexecutive session. It was a very long consultation. Men noted it.Occasionally the kids laughed in supreme enjoyment of somethingunknown. The low rumble of wheels came from the street. Often couldbe heard the parrot-like cries of distant vendors. The sunlightstreamed through the green curtains, and made little amber-colouredflitterings on the marble floor. High up among the severedecorations of the ceiling—reminiscent of the days when thegreat building was a palace—a small white butterfly waswending through the cool air spaces. The long billiard hall ledback to a vague gloom. The balls were always clicking, and onecould see countless crooked elbows. Beggars slunk through thewicker doors, and were ejected by the nearest waiter. At last thekids called Pop to them.
"Sit down, Pop. Have a drink." They scanned him carefully. "Saynow, Pop, on your solemn oath, can you run?"
"Boys," said Pop piously, and raising his hand, "I can run likea rabbit."
"On your oath?"
"On my oath."
"Can you beat Freddie?"
Pop appeared to look at the matter from all sides. "Well, boys,I'll tell you. No man is ever cock-sure of anything in this world,and I don't want to say that I can best any man, but I've seenFreddie run, and I'm ready to swear I can beat him. In a hundredyards I'd just about skin 'im neat—you understand, just aboutneat. Freddie is a good average runner, but I—youunderstand—I'm just—a little—bit—better."The kids had been listening with the utmost attention. Pop spokethe latter part slowly and meanfully. They thought he intended themto see his great confidence.
One said—"Pop, if you throw us in this thing, we'll comehere and drink for two weeks without paying. We'll back you andwork a josh on Freddie! But O!—if you throw us!"
To this menace Pop cried—"Boys, I'll make the run of mylife! On my oath!"
The salad having vanished, the kids arose. "All right, now,"they warned him. "If you play us for duffers, we'll get square.Don't you forget it."
"Boys, I'll give you a race for your money. Book on that. I maylose—understand, I may lose—no man can help meeting abetter man. But I think I can skin him, and I'll give you a run foryour money, you bet."
"All right, then. But, look here," they told him, "you keep yourface closed. Nobody gets in on this but us. Understand?"
"Not a soul," Pop declared. They left him, gesturing a lastwarning from the wicker doors.
In the street they saw Benson, his cane gripped in the middle,strolling through the white-clothed jabbering natives on the shadyside. They semaphored to him eagerly. He came across cautiously,like a man who ventures into dangerous company.
"We're going to get up a race. Pop and Fred. Pop swears he canskin 'im. This is a tip. Keep it dark. Say, won't Freddie behot?"
Benson looked as if he had been compelled to endure theseexhibitions of insanity for a century. "Oh, you fellows are off.Pop can't beat Freddie. He's an old bat. Why, it's impossible. Popcan't beat Freddie."
"Can't he? Want to bet he can't?" said the kids. "There now,let's see—you're talking so large."
"Well, you—"
"Oh, bet. Bet or else close your trap. That's the way."
"How do you know you can pull off the race? Seen Freddie?"
"No, but—"
"Well, see him then. Can't bet with no race arranged. I'll betwith you all right—all right. I'll give you fellows a tipthough—you're a pair of asses. Pop can't run any faster thana brick school-house."
The kids scowled at him and defiantly said—"Can't he?"They left him and went to the Casa Verde. Freddie, beautiful in hiswhite jacket, was holding one of his innumerable conversationsacross the bar. He smiled when he saw them. "Where you boys been?"he demanded, in a paternal tone. Almost all the proprietors ofAmerican cafés in the city used to adopt a paternal tone when theyspoke to the kids.
"Oh, been 'round,'" they replied.
"Have a drink?" said the proprietor of the Casa Verde,forgetting his other social obligations. During the course of thisceremony one of the kids remarked—
"Freddie, Pop says he can beat you running."
"Does he?" observed Freddie without excitement. He was used tovarious snares of the kids.
"That's what. He says he can leave you at the wire and not seeyou again."
"Well, he lies," replied Freddie placidly.
"And I'll bet you a bottle of wine that he can do it, too."
"Rats!" said Freddie.
"Oh, that's all right," pursued a kid. "You can throw bluffs allyou like, but he can lose you in a hundred yards' dash, youbet."
Freddie drank his whisky, and then settled his elbows on thebar.
"Say, now, what do you boys keep coming in here with somepipe-story all the time for? You can't josh me. Do you think youcan scare me about Pop? Why, I know I can beat him. He can't runwith me. Certainly not. Why, you fellows are just jollying me."
"Are we though!" said the kids. "You daren't bet the bottle ofwine."
"Oh, of course I can bet you a bottle of wine," said Freddiedisdainfully. "Nobody cares about a bottle of wine, but—"
"Well, make it five then," advised one of the kids.
Freddie hunched his shoulders. "Why, certainly I will. Make itten if you like, but—"
"We do," they said.
"Ten, is it? All right; that goes." A look of weariness cameover Freddie's face. "But you boys are foolish. I tell you Pop isan old man. How can you expect him to run? Of course, I'm no greatrunner, but then I'm young and healthy and—and a prettysmooth runner too. Pop is old and fat, and then he doesn't do athing but tank all day. It's a cinch."
The kids looked at him and laughed rapturously. They waved theirfingers at him. "Ah, there!" they cried. They meant that they hadmade a victim of him.
But Freddie continued to expostulate. "I tell you he couldn'twin—an old man like him. You're crazy. Of course, I know youdon't care about ten bottles of wine, but, then—to make suchbets as that. You're twisted."
"Are we, though?" cried the kids in mockery. They hadprecipitated Freddie into a long and thoughtful treatise on everypossible chance of the thing as he saw it. They disputed with himfrom time to time, and jeered at him. He laboured on through hisargument. Their childish faces were bright with glee.
In the midst of it Wilburson entered. Wilburson worked; not toomuch, though. He had hold of the Mexican end of a great importinghouse of New York, and as he was a junior partner, he worked. Butnot too much, though. "What's the howl?" he said.
The kids giggled. "We've got Freddie rattled."
"Why," said Freddie, turning to him, "these two Indians aretrying to tell me that Pop can beat me running."
"Like the devil," said Wilburson, incredulously.
"Well, can't he?" demanded a kid.
"Why, certainly not," said Wilburson, dismissing everypossibility of it with a gesture. "That old bat? Certainly not.I'll bet fifty dollars that Freddie—"
"Take you," said a kid.
"What?" said Wilburson, "that Freddie won't beat Pop?"
The kid that had spoken now nodded his head.
"That Freddie won't beat Pop?" repeated Wilburson.
"Yes. It's a go?"
"Why, certainly," retorted Wilburson. "Fifty? All right."
"Bet you five bottles on the side," ventured the other kid.
"Why, certainly," exploded Wilburson wrathfully. "You fellowsmust take me for something easy. I'll take all those kinds of betsI can get. Cer—tain—ly."
They settled the details. The course was to be paced off on theasphalt of one of the adjacent side-streets, and then, at abouteleven o'clock in the evening, the match would be run. Usually inMexico the streets of a city grow lonely and dark but a littleafter nine o'clock. There are occasional lurking figures, perhaps,but no crowds, lights and noise. The course would doubtless beundisturbed. As for the policeman in the vicinity, they—well,they were conditionally amiable.
The kids went to see Pop; they told him of the arrangement, andthen in deep tones they said, "Oh, Pop, if you throw us!"
Pop appeared to be a trifle shaken by the weight ofresponsibility thrust upon him, but he spoke out bravely. "Boys,I'll pinch that race. Now you watch me. I'll pinch it."
The kids went then on some business of their own, for they werenot seen again till evening. When they returned to theneighbourhood of the Café Colorado the usual stream of carriageswas whirling along the calle. The wheels hummed on the asphalt, andthe coachmen towered in their great sombreros. On the sidewalk agazing crowd sauntered, the better class self-satisfied and proud,in their Derby hats and cut-away coats, the lower classes mufflingtheir dark faces in their blankets, slipping along in leathersandals. An electric light sputtered and fumed over the throng. Theafternoon shower had left the pave wet and glittering. The air wasstill laden with the odour of rain on flowers, grass, leaves.
In the Café Colorado a cosmopolitan crowd ate, drank, playedbilliards, gossiped, or read in the glaring yellow light. When thekids entered a large circle of men that had been gesticulating nearthe bar greeted them with a roar.
"Here they are now!"
"Oh, you pair of peaches!"
"Say, got any more money to bet with?" Colonel Hammigan,grinning, pushed his way to them. "Say, boys, we'll all have adrink on you now because you won't have any money after eleveno'clock. You'll be going down the back stairs in your stockingfeet."
Although the kids remained unnaturally serene and quiet,argument in the Café Colorado became tumultuous. Here and there aman who did not intend to bet ventured meekly that perchance Popmight win, and the others swarmed upon him in a whirlwind of angrydenial and ridicule.
Pop, enthroned behind the bar, looked over at this storm with ashadow of anxiety upon his face. This widespread flouting affectedhim, but the kids looked blissfully satisfied with the tumult theyhad stirred.
Blanco, honest man, ever worrying for his friends, came to them."Say, you fellows, you aren't betting too much? This thing lookskind of shaky, don't it?"
The faces of the kids grew sober, and after consideration onesaid—"No, I guess we've got a good thing, Blanco. Pop isgoing to surprise them, I think."
"Well, don't—"
"All right, old boy. We'll watch out."
From time to time the kids had much business with certainorange, red, blue, purple, and green bills. They were making littlememoranda on the back of visiting cards. Pop watched them closely,the shadow still upon his face. Once he called to them, and whenthey came he leaned over the bar and said intensely—"Say,boys, remember, now—I might lose this race. Nobody can eversay for sure, and if I do, why—"
"Oh, that's all right, Pop," said the kids, reassuringly. "Don'tmind it. Do your derndest, and let it go at that."
When they had left him, however, they went to a corner toconsult. "Say, this is getting interesting. Are you in deep?" askedone anxiously of his friend.
"Yes, pretty deep," said the other stolidly. "Are you?"
"Deep as the devil," replied the other in the same tone.
They looked at each other stonily and went back to the crowd.Benson had just entered the café. He approached them with agloating smile of victory. "Well, where's all that money you weregoing to bet?"
"Right here," said the kids, thrusting into their waistcoatpockets.
At eleven o'clock a curious thing was learned. When Pop andFreddie, the kids and all, came to the little side street, it wasthick with people. It seemed that the news of this race had spreadlike the wind among the Americans, and they had come to witness theevent. In the darkness the crowd moved, mumbling in argument.
The principals—the kids and those with them—surveyedthis scene with some dismay. "Say—here's a go." Even then apoliceman might be seen approaching, the light from his littlelantern flickering on his white cap, gloves, brass buttons, and onthe butt of the old-fashioned Colt's revolver which hung at hisbelt. He addressed Freddie in swift Mexican. Freddie listened,nodding from time to time. Finally Freddie turned to the others totranslate. "He says he'll get into trouble if he allows this racewhen all this crowd is here."
There was a murmur of discontent. The policeman looked at themwith an expression of anxiety on his broad, brown face.
"Oh, come on. We'll go hold it on some other fellow's beat,"said one of the kids. The group moved slowly away debating.Suddenly the other kid cried, "I know! The Paseo!"
"By jiminy," said Freddie, "just the thing. We'll get a cab andgo out to the Paseo. S-s-h! Keep it quiet; we don't want all thismob."
Later they tumbled into a cab—Pop, Freddie, the kids, oldColonel Hammigan and Benson. They whispered to the men who hadwagered, "The Paseo." The cab whirled away up the black street.There were occasional grunts and groans, cries of "Oh, get off mefeet," and of "Quit! you're killing me." Six people do not have funin one cab. The principals spoke to each other with the respect andfriendliness which comes to good men at such times. Once a kid puthis head out of the window and looked backward. He pulled it inagain and cried, "Great Scott! Look at that, would you!"
The others struggled to do as they were bid, and afterwardsshouted, "Holy smoke! Well, I'll be blowed! Thunder and turf!"
Galloping after them came innumerable cabs, their lightstwinkling, streaming in a great procession through the night.
"The street is full of them," ejaculated the old colonel.
The Paseo de la Reforma is the famous drive of the city ofMexico, leading to the Castle of Chapultepec, which last ought tobe well known in the United States.
It is a fine broad avenue of macadam with a much greater qualityof dignity than anything of the kind we possess in our own land. Itseems of the old world, where to the beauty of the thing itself isadded the solemnity of tradition and history, the knowledge thatfeet in buskins trod the same stones, that cavalcades of steelthundered there before the coming of carriages.
When the Americans tumbled out of their cabs the giant bronzesof Aztec and Spaniard loomed dimly above them like towers. The fourroads of poplar trees rustled weirdly off there in the darkness.Pop took out his watch and struck a match. "Well, hurry up thisthing. It's almost midnight."
The other cabs came swarming, the drivers lashing their horses,for these Americans, who did all manner of strange things,nevertheless always paid well for it. There was a mighty hubbubthen in the darkness. Five or six men began to pace the distanceand quarrel. Others knotted their handkerchiefs together to make atape. Men were swearing over bets, fussing and fuming about theodds. Benson came to the kids swaggering. "You're a pair of asses."The cabs waited in a solid block down the avenue. Above the crowdthe tall statues hid their visages in the night.
At last a voice floated through the darkness. "Are you readythere?" Everybody yelled excitedly. The men at the tape pulled itout straight. "Hold it higher, Jim, you fool," and silence fellthen upon the throng. Men bended down trying to pierce the deepgloom with their eyes. From out at the starting point came muffledvoices. The crowd swayed and jostled.
The racers did not come. The crowd began to fret, its nervesburning. "Oh, hurry up," shrilled some one.
The voice called again—"Ready there?" Everybodyreplied—"Yes, all ready. Hurry up!"
There was a more muffled discussion at the starting point. Inthe crowd a man began to make a proposition. "I'll bettwenty—" but the crowd interrupted with a howl. "Here theycome!" The thickly-packed body of men swung as if the ground hadmoved. The men at the tape shouldered madly at their fellows,bawling, "Keep back! Keep back!"
From the distance came the noise of feet pattering furiously.Vague forms flashed into view for an instant. A hoarse roar brokefrom the crowd. Men bended and swayed and fought. The kids backnear the tape exchanged another stolid look. A white form shoneforth. It grew like a spectre. Always could be heard the wildpatter. A scream broke from the crowd. "By Gawd, it's Pop! Pop!Pop's ahead!"
The old man spun towards the tape like a madman, his chin thrownback, his grey hair flying. His legs moved like oiled machinery.And as he shot forward a howl as from forty cages of wild animalswent toward the imperturbable chieftains in bronze. The crowd flungthemselves forward. "Oh, you old Indian! You savage! Did anybodyever see such running?"
"Ain't he a peach! Well!"
"Where's the kids? H-e-y, kids!"
"Look at him, would you? Did you ever think?" These cries flewin the air blended in a vast shout of astonishment andlaughter.
For an instant the whole tragedy was in view. Freddie,desperate, his teeth shining, his face contorted, whirling along indeadly effort, was twenty feet behind the tall form of old Pop,who, dressed only in his—only in hisunderclothes—gained with each stride. One grand insanemoment, and then Pop had hurled himself against thetape—victor!
Freddie, fallen into the arms of some men, struggled with hisbreath, and at last managed to stammer—
"Say, can't—can't—that old—old—manrun!"
Pop, puffing and heaving, could only gasp—"Where's myshoes? Who's got my shoes?"
Later Freddie scrambled panting through the crowd, and held outhis hand. "Good man, Pop!" And then he looked up and down the tall,stout form. "Hell! who would think you could run like that?"
The kids were surrounded by a crowd, laughing tempestuously.
"How did you know he could run?"
"Why didn't you give me a line on him?"
"Say—great snakes!—you fellows had a nerve to bet onPop."
"Why, I was cock-sure he couldn't win."
"Oh, you fellows must have seen him run before."
"Who would ever think it?"
Benson came by, filling the midnight air with curses. Theyturned to jibe him.
"What's the matter, Benson?"
"Somebody pinched my handkerchief. I tied it up in that string.Damn it."
The kids laughed blithely. "Why, hello! Benson," they said.
There was a great rush for cabs. Shouting, laughing, wondering,the crowd hustled into their conveyances, and the drivers floggedtheir horses toward the city again.
"Won't Freddie be crazy! Say, he'll be guyed about this foryears."
"But who would ever think that old tank could run so?"
One cab had to wait while Pop and Freddie resumed various partsof their clothing.
As they drove home, Freddie said—"Well, Pop, you beatme."
Pop said—"That's all right, old man."
The kids, grinning, said—"How much did you lose,Benson?"
Benson said defiantly—"Oh, not so much. How much did youwin?"
"Oh, not so much."
Old Colonel Hammigan, squeezed down in a corner, had apparentlybeen reviewing the event in his mind, for he suddenly remarked,"Well, I'm damned!"
They were late in reaching the Café Colorado, but when they did,the bottles were on the bar as thick as pickets on a fence.
Freddie was mixing a cock-tail. His hand with the long spoon waswhirling swiftly, and the ice in the glass hummed and rattled likea cheap watch. Over by the window, a gambler, a millionaire, arailway conductor, and the agent of a vast American syndicate wereplaying seven-up. Freddie surveyed them with the ironical glance ofa man who is mixing a cock-tail.
From time to time a swarthy Mexican waiter came with his trayfrom the rooms at the rear, and called his orders across the bar.The sounds of the indolent stir of the city, awakening from itssiesta, floated over the screens which barred the sun and theinquisitive eye. From the far-away kitchen could be heard the roarof the old Frenchchef, driving, herding, and abusing hisMexican helpers.
A string of men came suddenly in from the street. They stormedup to the bar. There were impatient shouts. "Come now, Freddie,don't stand there like a portrait of yourself. Wiggle!" Drinks ofmany kinds and colours, amber, green, mahogany, strong and mild,began to swarm upon the bar with all the attendants of lemon,sugar, mint and ice. Freddie, with Mexican support, worked like asailor in the provision of them, sometimes talking with that scornfor drink and admiration for those who drink which is the attributeof a good bar-keeper.
At last a man was afflicted with a stroke of dice-shaking. Aherculean discussion was waging, and he was deeply engaged in it,but at the same time he lazily flirted the dice. Occasionally hemade great combinations. "Look at that, would you?" he criedproudly. The others paid little heed. Then violently the cravingtook them. It went along the line like an epidemic, and involvedthem all. In a moment they had arranged a carnival of dice-shakingwith money penalties and liquid prizes. They clamorously made it apoint of honour with Freddie that he should play and take hischance of sometimes providing this large group with freerefreshment. With bended heads like football players, they surgedover the tinkling dice, jostling, cheering, and bitterly arguing.One of the quiet company playing seven-up at the corner table saidprofanely that the row reminded him of a bowling contest at apicnic.
After the regular shower, many carriages rolled over the smoothcalle, and sent a musical thunder through the Casa Verde. Theshop-windows became aglow with light, and the walks were crowdedwith youths, callow and ogling, dressed vainly according tosuperstitious fashions. The policemen had muffled themselves intheir gnome-like cloaks, and placed their lanterns as obstacles forthe carriages in the middle of the street. The city of Mexico gaveforth the deep organ-mellow tones of its evening resurrection.
But still the group at the bar of the Casa Verde were shakingdice. They had passed beyond shaking for drinks for the crowd, forMexican dollars, for dinners, for the wine at dinner. They had evengone to the trouble of separating the cigars and cigarettes fromthe dinner's bill, and causing a distinct man to be responsible forthem. Finally they were aghast. Nothing remained in sight of theirminds which even remotely suggested further gambling. There was apause for deep consideration.
"Well—"
"Well—"
A man called out in the exuberance of creation. "I know! Let'sshake for a box to-night at the circus! A box at the circus!" Thegroup was profoundly edified. "That's it! That's it! Come on now!Box at the circus!" A dominating voice cried—"Threedashes—high man out!" An American, tall, and with a face ofcopper red from the rays that flash among the Sierra Madres andburn on the cactus deserts, took the little leathern cup and spunthe dice out upon the polished wood. A fascinated assemblage hungupon the bar-rail. Three kings turned their pink faces upward. Thetall man flourished the cup, burlesquing, and flung the two otherdice. From them he ultimately extracted one more pink king."There," he said. "Now, let's see! Four kings!" He began to swaggerin a sort of provisional way.
The next man took the cup, and blew softly in the top of it.Poising it in his hand, he then surveyed the company with a stonyeye and paused. They knew perfectly well that he was applying themagic of deliberation and ostentatious indifference, but they couldnot wait in tranquillity during the performance of all these rites.They began to call out impatiently. "Come now—hurry up." Atlast the man, with a gesture that was singularly impressive, threwthe dice. The others set up a howl of joy. "Not a pair!" There wasanother solemn pause. The men moved restlessly. "Come, now, goahead!" In the end, the man, induced and abused, achieved somethingthat was nothing in the presence of four kings. The tall manclimbed on the foot-rail and leaned hazardously forward. "Fourkings! My four kings are good to go out," he bellowed into themiddle of the mob, and although in a moment he did pass into theradiant region of exemption, he continued to bawl advice andscorn.
The mirrors and oiled woods of the Casa Verde were now dancingwith blue flashes from a great buzzing electric lamp. A host ofquiet members of the Anglo-Saxon colony had come in for theirpre-dinner cock-tails. An amiable person was exhibiting to sometourists this popular American saloon. It was a very sober andrespectable time of day. Freddie reproved courageously thedice-shaking brawlers, and, in return, he received the choicestadvice in a tumult of seven combined vocabularies. He laughed; hehad been compelled to retire from the game, but he was keeping aninterested, if furtive, eye upon it.
Down at the end of the line there was a youth at whom everybodyrailed for his flaming ill-luck. At each disaster, Freddie sworefrom behind the bar in a sort of affectionate contempt. "Why, thiskid has had no luck for two days. Did you ever see suchthrowin'?"
The contest narrowed eventually to the New York kid and anindividual who swung about placidly on legs that moved in nefariouscircles. He had a grin that resembled a bit of carving. He wasobliged to lean down and blink rapidly to ascertain the facts ofhis venture, but fate presented him with five queens. His smile didnot change, but he puffed gently like a man who has beenrunning.
The others, having emerged unscathed from this part of theconflict, waxed hilarious with the kid. They smote him on eithershoulders. "We've got you stuck for it, kid! You can't beat thatgame! Five queens!"
Up to this time the kid had displayed only the temper of thegambler, but the cheerful hoots of the players, supplemented now bya ring of guying non-combatants, caused him to feel profoundly thatit would be fine to beat the five queens. He addressed a gambler'sslogan to the interior of the cup.
"Oh, five white mice of chance,
Shirts of wool and corduroy pants,
Gold and wine, women and sin,
All for you if you let me come in—
Into the house of chance."
Flashing the dice sardonically out upon the bar, he displayedthree aces. From two dice in the next throw he achieved one moreace. For his last throw, he rattled the single dice for a longtime. He already had four aces; if he accomplished another one, thefive queens were vanquished and the box at the circus came from thedrunken man's pocket. All the kid's movements were slow andelaborate. For the last throw he planted the cup bottom-down on thebar with the one dice hidden under it. Then he turned and faced thecrowd with the air of a conjuror or a cheat.
"Oh, maybe it's an ace," he said in boastful calm. "Maybe it'san ace."
Instantly he was presiding over a little drama in which everyman was absorbed. The kid leaned with his back against the bar-railand with his elbows upon it.
"Maybe it's an ace," he repeated.
A jeering voice in the background said—"Yes, maybe it is,kid!"
The kid's eyes searched for a moment among the men. "I'll betfifty dollars it is an ace," he said.
Another voice asked—"American money?"
"Yes," answered the kid.
"Oh!" There was a genial laugh at this discomfiture. However, noone came forward at the kid's challenge, and presently he turned tothe cup. "Now, I'll show you." With the manner of a mayor unveilinga statue, he lifted the cup. There was revealed naught but aten-spot. In the roar which arose could be heard each manridiculing the cowardice of his neighbour, and above all the dinrang the voice of Freddie be-rating every one. "Why, there isn'tone liver to every five men in the outfit. That was the greatestcold bluff I ever saw worked. He wouldn't know how to cheat withdice if he wanted to. Don't know the first thing about it. I couldhardly keep from laughin' when I seen him drillin' you around. Why,I tell you, I had that fifty dollars right in my pocket if I wantedto be a chump. You're an easy lot—"
Nevertheless the group who had won in the theatre-box game didnot relinquish their triumph. They burst like a storm about thehead of the kid, swinging at him with their fists. "'Five whitemice'!" they quoted, choking. "'Five white mice'!"
"Oh, they are not so bad," said the kid.
Afterward it often occurred that a man would jeer a finger atthe kid and derisively say—"'Five white mice.'"
On the route from the dinner to the circus, others of the partyoften asked the kid if he had really intended to make his appeal tomice. They suggested other animals—rabbits, dogs, hedgehogs,snakes, opossums. To this banter the kid replied with a seriousexpression of his belief in the fidelity and wisdom of the fivewhite mice. He presented a most eloquent case, decorated with finelanguage and insults, in which he proved that if one was going tobelieve in anything at all, one might as well choose the five whitemice. His companions, however, at once and unanimously pointed outto him that his recent exploit did not place him in the light of aconvincing advocate.
The kid discerned two figures in the street. They were makingimperious signs at him. He waited for them to approach, for herecognized one as the other kid—the Frisco kid: there weretwo kids. With the Frisco kid was Benson. They arrived almostbreathless. "Where you been?" cried the Frisco kid. It was anarrangement that upon a meeting the one that could first ask thisquestion was entitled to use a tone of limitless injury. "What youbeen doing? Where you going? Come on with us. Benson and I have gota little scheme."
The New York kid pulled his arm from the grapple of the other."I can't. I've got to take these sutlers to the circus. They stuckme for it shaking dice at Freddie's. I can't, I tell you."
The two did not at first attend to his remarks. "Come on! We'vegot a little scheme."
"I can't. They stuck me. I've got to take'm to the circus."
At this time it did not suit the men with the scheme torecognize these objections as important. "Oh, take'm some othertime. Well, can't you take'm some other time? Let 'em go. Damn thecircus. Get cold feet. What did you get stuck for? Get coldfeet."
But despite their fighting, the New York kid broke away fromthem. "I can't, I tell you. They stuck me." As he left them, theyyelled with rage. "Well, meet us, now, do you hear? In the CasaVerde as soon as the circus quits! Hear?" They threw maledictionsafter him.
In the city of Mexico, a man goes to the circus withoutdescending in any way to infant amusements, because the CircoTeatro Orrin is one of the best in the world, and too easilysurpasses anything of the kind in the United States, where it ismerely a matter of a number of rings, if possible, and a greatprofessional agreement to lie to the public. Moreover, the Americanclown, who in the Mexican arena prances and gabbles, is the clownto whom writers refer as the delight of their childhood, and lamentthat he is dead. At this circus the kid was not debased by thesight of mournful prisoner elephants and caged animals forlorn andsickly. He sat in his box until late, and laughed and swore whenpast laughing at the comic foolish-wise clown.
When he returned to the Casa Verde there was no display of theFrisco kid and Benson. Freddie was leaning on the bar listening tofour men terribly discuss a question that was not plain. There wasa card-game in the corner, of course. Sounds of revelry pealed fromthe rear rooms.
When the kid asked Freddie if he had seen his friend and Benson,Freddie looked bored. "Oh, yes, they were in here just a minuteago, but I don't know where they went. They've got their skates on.Where've they been? Came in here rolling across the floor like twolittle gilt gods. They wobbled around for a time, and then Friscowanted me to send six bottles of wine around to Benson's rooms, butI didn't have anybody to send this time of night, and so they gotmad and went out. Where did they get their loads?"
In the first deep gloom of the street the kid paused a momentdebating. But presently he heard quavering voices. "Oh, kid! kid!Com'ere!" Peering, he recognized two vague figures against theopposite wall. He crossed the street, and theysaid—"Hello-kid."
"Say, where did you get it?" he demanded sternly. "You Indiansbetter go home. What did you want to get scragged for?" His facewas luminous with virtue.
As they swung to and fro, they made angry denials. "We ain'load'! We ain' load'. Big chump. Comonangetadrink."
The sober youth turned then to his friend. "Hadn't you better gohome, kid? Come on, it's late. You'd better break away."
The Frisco kid wagged his head decisively. "Got take Benson homefirst. He'll be wallowing around in a minute. Don't mind me. I'mall right."
"Cerly, he's all right," said Benson, arousing from deepthought. "He's all right. But better take'm home, though. That'sri—right. He's load'. But he's all right. No need go home anymore'n you. But better take'm home. He's load'." He looked at hiscompanion with compassion. "Kid, you're load'."
The sober kid spoke abruptly to his friend from San Francisco."Kid, pull yourself together, now. Don't fool. We've got to bracethis ass of a Benson all the way home. Get hold of his otherarm."
The Frisco kid immediately obeyed his comrade without a word ora glower. He seized Benson and came to attention like a soldier.Later, indeed, he meekly ventured—"Can't we take cab?" Butwhen the New York kid snapped out that there were no convenientcabs he subsided to an impassive silence. He seemed to bereflecting upon his state, without astonishment, dismay, or anyparticular emotion. He submitted himself woodenly to the directionof his friend.
Benson had protested when they had grasped his arms. "Washadoing?" he said in a new and guttural voice. "Washa doing? I ain'load'. Comonangetadrink. I—"
"Oh, come along, you idiot," said the New York kid. The Friscokid merely presented the mien of a stoic to the appeal of Benson,and in silence dragged away at one of his arms. Benson's feet camefrom that particular spot on the pavement with the reluctance ofroots and also with the ultimate suddenness of roots. The three ofthem lurched out into the street in the abandon of tumblingchimneys. Benson was meanwhile noisily challenging the others toproduce any reasons for his being taken home. His toes clashed intothe kerb when they reached the other side of the calle, and for amoment the kids hauled him along with the points of his shoesscraping musically on the pavement. He balked formidably as theywere about to pass the Casa Verde. "No! No! Leshavanothdrink!Anothdrink! Onemore!"
But the Frisco kid obeyed the voice of his partner in a mannerthat was blind but absolute, and they scummed Benson on past thedoor. Locked together the three swung into a dark street. The soberkid's flank was continually careering ahead of the other wing. Heharshly admonished the Frisco child, and the latter promptlyimproved in the same manner of unthinking complete obedience.Benson began to recite the tale of a love affair, a tale thatdidn't even have a middle. Occasionally the New York kid swore.They toppled on their way like three comedians playing at it on thestage.
At midnight a little Mexican street burrowing among the walls ofthe city is as dark as a whale's throat at deep sea. Upon thisoccasion heavy clouds hung over the capital and the sky was a pall.The projecting balconies could make no shadows.
"Shay," said Benson, breaking away from his escort suddenly,"what want gome for? I ain't load'. You got reg'lar spool-fact'ryin your head—you N' York kid there. Thish oth' kid, he's mos'proper shober, mos' proper shober. He's drunk, but—but he'sshober."
"Ah, shup up, Benson," said the New York kid. "Come along now.We can't stay here all night." Benson refused to be corralled, butspread his legs and twirled like a dervish, meanwhile under theevident impression that he was conducting himself most handsomely.It was not long before he gained the opinion that he was laughingat the others. "Eight purple dogsh—dogs! Eight purple dogs.Thas what kid'll see in the morn'. Look ou' for 'em.They—"
As Benson, describing the canine phenomena, swung wildly acrossthe sidewalk, it chanced that three other pedestrians were passingin shadowy rank. Benson's shoulder jostled one of them.
A Mexican wheeled upon the instant. His hand flashed to his hip.There was a moment of silence, during which Benson's voice was notheard raised in apology. Then an indescribable comment, one burningword, came from between the Mexican's teeth.
Benson, rolling about in a semi-detached manner, stared vacantlyat the Mexican, who thrust his lean face forward while his fingersplayed nervously at his hip. The New York kid could not followSpanish well, but he understood when the Mexican breathed softly:"Does the señor want to fight?"
Benson simply gazed in gentle surprise. The woman next to him atdinner had said something inventive. His tailor had presented hisbill. Something had occurred which was mildly out of the ordinary,and his surcharged brain refused to cope with it. He displayed onlythe agitation of a smoker temporarily without a light.
The New York kid had almost instantly grasped Benson's arm, andwas about to jerk him away, when the other kid, who up to this timehad been an automaton, suddenly projected himself forward, thrustthe rubber Benson aside, and said—"Yes."
There was no sound nor light in the world. The wall at the lefthappened to be of the common prison-like construction—nodoor, no window, no opening at all. Humanity was enclosed andasleep. Into the mouth of the sober kid came a wretched bittertaste as if it had filled with blood. He was transfixed as if hewas already seeing the lightning ripples on the knife-blade.
But the Mexican's hand did not move at that time. His face wentstill further forward and he whispered—"So?" The sober kidsaw this face as if he and it were alone in space—a yellowmask smiling in eager cruelty, in satisfaction, and above all itwas lit with sinister decision. As for the features, they werereminiscent of an unplaced, a forgotten type, which reallyresembled with precision those of a man who had shaved him threetimes in Boston in 1888. But the expression burned his mind assealing-wax burns the palm, and fascinated, stupefied, he actuallywatched the progress of the man's thought toward the point where aknife would be wrenched from its sheath. The emotion, a sort ofmechanical fury, a breeze made by electric fans, a rage made byvanity, smote the dark countenance in wave after wave.
Then the New York kid took a sudden step forward. His hand wasat his hip. He was gripping there a revolver of robust size. Herecalled that upon its black handle was stamped a hunting scene inwhich a sportsman in fine leggings and a peaked cap was taking aimat a stag less than one-eighth of an inch away.
His pace forward caused instant movement of the Mexicans. Oneimmediately took two steps to face him squarely. There was ageneral adjustment, pair and pair. This opponent of the New Yorkkid was a tall man and quite stout. His sombrero was drawn low overhis eyes. His serape was flung on his left shoulder. His back wasbended in the supposed manner of a Spanish grandee. This concavegentleman cut a fine and terrible figure. The lad, moved by thespirits of his modest and perpendicular ancestors, had time to feelhis blood roar at sight of the pose.
He was aware that the third Mexican was over on the leftfronting Benson, and he was aware that Benson was leaning againstthe wall sleepily and peacefully eying the convention. So ithappened that these six men stood, side fronting side, five of themwith their right hands at their hips and with their bodies liftednervously, while the central pair exchanged a crescendo ofprovocations. The meaning of their words rose and rose. They weretravelling in a straight line toward collision.
The New York kid contemplated his Spanish grandee. He drew hisrevolver upward until the hammer was surely free of the holster. Hewaited immovable and watchful while the garrulous Frisco kidexpended two and a half lexicons on the middle Mexican.
The eastern lad suddenly decided that he was going to be killed.His mind leaped forward and studied the aftermath. The story wouldbe a marvel of brevity when first it reached the far New York home,written in a careful hand on a bit of cheap paper, topped andfooted and backed by the printed fortifications of the cablecompany. But they are often as stones flung into mirrors, thesebits of paper upon which are laconically written all the mostterrible chronicles of the times. He witnessed the uprising of hismother and sister, and the invincible calm of his hard-mouthed oldfather, who would probably shut himself in his library and smokealone. Then his father would come, and they would bring him hereand say—"This is the place." Then, very likely, each wouldremove his hat. They would stand quietly with their hats in theirhands for a decent minute. He pitied his old financing father,unyielding and millioned, a man who commonly spoke twenty-two wordsa year to his beloved son. The kid understood it at this time. Ifhis fate was not impregnable, he might have turned out to be a manand have been liked by his father.
The other kid would mourn his death. He would be preternaturallycorrect for some weeks, and recite the tale without swearing. Butit would not bore him. For the sake of his dead comrade he would beglad to be preternaturally correct, and to recite the tale withoutswearing.
These views were perfectly stereopticon, flashing in and awayfrom his thought with an inconceivable rapidity until after allthey were simply one quick dismal impression. And now here is theunreal real: into this kid's nostrils, at the expectant moment ofslaughter, had come the scent of new-mown hay, a fragrance from afield of prostrate grass, a fragrance which contained the sunshine,the bees, the peace of meadows, and the wonder of a distantcrooning stream. It had no right to be supreme, but it was supreme,and he breathed it as he waited for pain and a sight of theunknown.
But in the same instant, it may be, his thought flew to theFrisco kid, and it came upon him like a flicker of lightning thatthe Frisco kid was not going to be there to perform, for instance,the extraordinary office of respectable mourner. The other kid'shead was muddled, his hand was unsteady, his agility was gone. Thisother kid was facing the determined and most ferocious gentleman ofthe enemy. The New York kid became convinced that his friend waslost. There was going to be a screaming murder. He was so certainof it that he wanted to shield his eyes from sight of the leapingarm and the knife. It was sickening, utterly sickening. The NewYork kid might have been taking his first sea-voyage. A combinationof honourable manhood and inability prevented him from runningaway.
He suddenly knew that it was possible to draw his own revolver,and by a swift manoeuvre face down all three Mexicans. If he wasquick enough he would probably be victor. If any hitch occurred inthe draw he would undoubtedly be dead with his friends. It was anew game; he had never been obliged to face a situation of thiskind in the Beacon Club in New York. In this test, the lungs of thekid still continued to perform their duty.
"Oh, five white mice of chance,
Shirts of wool and corduroy pants,
Gold and wine, women and sin,
All for you if you let me come in—
Into the house of chance."
He thought of the weight and size of his revolver, and dismaypierced him. He feared that in his hands it would be as unwieldy asa sewing-machine for this quick work. He imagined, too, that somesingular providence might cause him to lose his grip as he raisedhis weapon. Or it might get fatally entangled in the tails of hiscoat. Some of the eels of despair lay wet and cold against hisback.
But at the supreme moment the revolver came forth as if it weregreased and it arose like a feather. This somnolent machine, aftermonths of repose, was finally looking at the breasts of men.
Perhaps in this one series of movements, the kid hadunconsciously used nervous force sufficient to raise a bale of hay.Before he comprehended it he was standing behind his revolverglaring over the barrel at the Mexicans, menacing first one andthen another. His finger was tremoring on the trigger. The revolvergleamed in the darkness with a fine silver light.
The fulsome grandee sprang backward with a low cry. The man whohad been facing the Frisco kid took a quick step away. Thebeautiful array of Mexicans was suddenly disorganized.
The cry and the backward steps revealed something of greatimportance to the New York kid. He had never dreamed that he didnot have a complete monopoly of all possible trepidations. The cryof the grandee was that of a man who suddenly sees a poisonoussnake. Thus the kid was able to understand swiftly that they wereall human beings. They were unanimous in not wishing for too bloodycombat. There was a sudden expression of the equality. He hadvaguely believed that they were not going to evince muchconsideration for his dramatic development as an active factor.They even might be exasperated into an onslaught by it. Instead,they had respected his movement with a respect as great even as anejaculation of fear and backward steps. Upon the instant he pouncedforward and began to swear, unreeling great English oaths as thickas ropes, and lashing the faces of the Mexicans with them. He wasbursting with rage, because these men had not previously confidedto him that they were vulnerable. The whole thing had been anabsurd imposition. He had been seduced into respectful alarm by theconcave attitude of the grandee. And after all there had been anequality of emotion, an equality: he was furious. He wanted to takethe serape of the grandee and swaddle him in it.
The Mexicans slunk back, their eyes burning wistfully. The kidtook aim first at one and then at another. After they had achieveda certain distance they paused and drew up in a rank. They thenresumed some of their old splendour of manner. A voice hailed himin a tone of cynical bravado as if it had come from between lips ofsmiling mockery. "Well, señor, it is finished?"
The kid scowled into the darkness, his revolver drooping at hisside. After a moment he answered—"I am willing." He found itstrange that he should be able to speak after this silence ofyears.
"Good-night, señor."
"Good-night."
When he turned to look at the Frisco kid he found him in hisoriginal position, his hand upon his hip. He was blinking inperplexity at the point from whence the Mexicans had vanished.
"Well," said the sober kid crossly, "are you ready to go homenow?"
The Frisco kid said—"Where they gone?" His voice wasundisturbed but inquisitive.
Benson suddenly propelled himself from his dreamful positionagainst the wall. "Frishco kid's all right. He's drunk's fool andhe's all right. But you New York kid, you're shober." He passedinto a state of profound investigation. "Kid shober 'cause didn'tgo with us. Didn't go with us 'cause went to damn circus. Went todamn circus 'cause lose shakin' dice. Lose shakin' dice'cause—what make lose shakin' dice, kid?"
The New York kid eyed the senile youth. "I don't know. The fivewhite mice, maybe."
Benson puzzled so over this reply that he had to be held erectby his friends. Finally the Frisco kid said—"Let's gohome."
Nothing had happened.
I
"I have got twenty men at me back who will fight to the death,"said the warrior to the old filibuster.
"And they can be blowed for all me," replied the old filibuster."Common as sparrows. Cheap as cigarettes. Show me twenty men withsteel clamps on their mouths, with holes in their heads wherememory ought to be, and I want 'em. But twenty brave men merely?I'd rather have twenty brave onions."
Thereupon the warrior removed sadly, feeling that no salaamswere paid to valour in these days of mechanical excellence.
Valour, in truth, is no bad thing to have when filibustering;but many medals are to be won by the man who knows not the meaningof "pow-wow," before or afterwards. Twenty brave men with tongueshung lightly may make trouble rise from the ground like smoke fromgrass, because of their subsequent fiery pride; whereas twentycow-eyed villains who accept unrighteous and far-compelling kicksas they do the rain from heaven may halo the ultimate history of anexpedition with gold, and plentifully bedeck their names, winningforty years of gratitude from patriots, simply by remaining silent.As for the cause, it may be only that they have no friends or othercredulous furniture.
If it were not for the curse of the swinging tongue, it issurely to be said that the filibustering industry, flourishing nowin the United States, would be pie. Under correct conditions, it ismerely a matter of dealing with some little detectives whose skillat search is rated by those who pay them at a value of twelve ortwenty dollars each week. It is nearly axiomatic that normally atwelve dollar per week detective cannot defeat a one hundredthousand dollar filibustering excursion. Against the criminal, thedetective represents the commonwealth, but in this other case herepresents his desire to show cause why his salary should be paid.He represents himself merely, and he counts no more than a grocer'sclerk.
But the pride of the successful filibuster often smites him andhis cause like an axe, and men who have not confided in theirmothers go prone with him. It can make the dome of the Capitoltremble and incite the Senators to over-turning benches. It canincrease the salaries of detectives who could not detect thelocation of a pain in the chest. It is a wonderful thing, thispride.
Filibustering was once such a simple game. It was managedblandly by gentle captains and smooth and undisturbed gentlemen,who at other times dealt in law, soap, medicine, and bananas. Itwas a great pity that the little cote of doves in Washington wereobliged to rustle officially, and naval men were kept from theirberths at night, and sundry Custom House people got wiggings, allbecause the returned adventurer pow-wowed in his pride. A yellowand red banner would have been long since smothered in a shame ofdefeat if a contract to filibuster had been let to some admirableorganization like one of our trusts.
And yet the game is not obsolete. It is still played by the wiseand the silent men whose names are not display-typed and blatheredfrom one end of the country to the other.
There is in mind now a man who knew one side of a fence from theother side when he looked sharply. They were hunting for captainsthen to command the first vessels of what has since become a famouslittle fleet. One was recommended to this man, and he said, "Sendhim down to my office and I'll look him over." He was an attorney,and he liked to lean back in his chair, twirl a paper-knife, andlet the other fellow talk.
The sea-faring man came and stood and appeared confounded. Theattorney asked the terrible first question of the filibuster to theapplicant. He said, "Why do you want to go?"
The captain reflected, changed his attitude three times, anddecided ultimately that he didn't know. He seemed greatly ashamed.The attorney, looking at him, saw that he had eyes that resembled alambkin's eyes.
"Glory?" said the attorney at last.
"No-o," said the captain.
"Pay?"
"No-o. Not that so much."
"Think they'll give you a land grant when they win out?"
"No; never thought."
"No glory; no immense pay; no land grant. What are you goingfor, then?"
"Well, I don't know," said the captain, with his glance on thefloor and shifting his position again. "I don't know. I guess it'sjust for fun mostly." The attorney asked him out to have adrink.
When he stood on the bridge of his out-going steamer, theattorney saw him again. His shore meekness and uncertainty weregone. He was clear-eyed and strong, aroused like a mastiff atnight. He took his cigar out of his mouth and yelled some suddenlanguage at the deck.
This steamer had about her a quality of unholy mediævaldisrepair, which is usually accounted the principal prerogative ofthe United States Revenue Marine. There is many a seaworthyice-house if she were a good ship. She swashed through the seas asgenially as an old wooden clock, burying her head under waves thatcame only like children at play, and, on board, it cost a duckingto go from anywhere to anywhere.
The captain had commanded vessels that shore-people thought wereliners; but when a man gets the ant of desire-to-see-what-it's-likestirring in his heart, he will wallow out to sea in a pail. Thething surpasses a man's love for his sweetheart. The greattank-steamerThunder-Voice had long been Flanagan'ssweetheart, but he was far happier off Hatteras watching thiswretched little portmanteau boom down the slant of a wave.
The crew scraped acquaintance one with another gradually. Eachman came ultimately to ask his neighbour what particular turn ofill-fortune or inherited deviltry caused him to try this voyage.When one frank, bold man saw another frank, bold man aboard, hesmiled, and they became friends. There was not a mind on board theship that was not fastened to the dangers of the coast of Cuba, andtaking wonder at this prospect and delight in it. Still, in jovialmoments they termed each other accursed idiots.
At first there was some trouble in the engine-room, where therewere many steel animals, for the most part painted red and in otherplaces very shiny—bewildering, complex, incomprehensible toany one who don't care, usually thumping, thumping, thumping withthe monotony of a snore.
It seems that this engine was as whimsical as a gas-meter. Thechief engineer was a fine old fellow with a grey moustache, but theengine told him that it didn't intend to budge until it feltbetter. He came to the bridge and said, "The blamed old thing haslaid down on us, sir."
"Who was on duty?" roared the captain.
"The second, sir."
"Why didn't he call you?"
"Don't know, sir." Later the stokers had occasion to thank thestars that they were not second engineers.
TheFoundling was soundly thrashed by the waves forloitering while the captain and the engineers fought the obstinatemachinery. During this wait on the sea, the first gloom came to thefaces of the company. The ocean is wide, and a ship is a smallplace for the feet, and an ill ship is worriment. Even when she wasagain under way, the gloom was still upon the crew. From time totime men went to the engine-room doors, and looking down, wanted toask questions of the chief engineer, who slowly prowled to and fro,and watched with careful eye his red-painted mysteries. No manwished to have a companion know that he was anxious, and soquestions were caught at the lips. Perhaps none commented save thefirst mate, who remarked to the captain, "Wonder what the bally oldthing will do, sir, when we're chased by a Spanish cruiser?"
The captain merely grinned. Later he looked over the side andsaid to himself with scorn, "Sixteen knots! sixteen knots! Sixteenhinges on the inner gates of Hades! Sixteen knots! Seven is hergait, and nine if you crack her up to it."
There may never be a captain whose crew can't sniff hismisgivings. They scent it as a herd scents the menace far throughthe trees and over the ridges. A captain that does not know that heis on a foundering ship sometimes can take his men to tea andbuttered toast twelve minutes before the disaster, but let him fretfor a moment in the loneliness of his cabin, and in no time itaffects the liver of a distant and sensitive seaman. Even asFlanagan reflected on theFoundling, viewing her as afilibuster, word arrived that a winter of discontent had come tothe stoke-room.
The captain knew that it requires sky to give a man courage. Hesent for a stoker and talked to him on the bridge. The man,standing under the sky, instantly and shamefacedly denied allknowledge of the business; nevertheless, a jaw had presently to bebroken by a fist because theFoundling could only steam nineknots, and because the stoke-room has no sky, no wind, no brighthorizon.
When theFoundling was somewhere off Savannah a blow camefrom the north-east, and the steamer, headed south-east, rolledlike a boiling potato. The first mate was a fine officer, and so awave crashed him into the deck-house and broke his arm. The cookwas a good cook, and so the heave of the ship flung him heels overhead with a pot of boiling water, and caused him to lose interestin everything save his legs. "By the piper," said Flanagan tohimself, "this filibustering is no trick with cards."
Later there was more trouble in the stoke-room. All the stokersparticipated save the one with a broken jaw, who had becomediscouraged. The captain had an excellent chest development. Whenhe went aft, roaring, it was plain that a man could beat carpetswith a voice like that one.
II
One night theFoundling was off the southern coast ofFlorida, and running at half-speed towards the shore. The captainwas on the bridge. "Four flashes at intervals of one minute," hesaid to himself, gazing steadfastly towards the beach. Suddenly ayellow eye opened in the black face of the night, and looked at theFoundling and closed again. The captain studied his watchand the shore. Three times more the eye opened and looked at theFoundling and closed again. The captain called to the vaguefigures on the deck below him. "Answer it." The flash of a lightfrom the bow of the steamer displayed for a moment in golden colourthe crests of the inriding waves.
TheFoundling lay to and waited. The long swells rolledher gracefully, and her two stub masts reaching into the darknessswung with the solemnity of batons timing a dirge. When the shiphad left Boston she had been as encrusted with ice as a Dakotastage-driver's beard, but now the gentle wind of Florida softlyswayed the lock on the forehead of the coatless Flanagan, and helit a new cigar without troubling to make a shield of hishands.
Finally a dark boat came plashing over the waves. As it camevery near, the captain leaned forward and perceived that the men inher rowed like seamstresses, and at the same time a voice hailedhim in bad English. "It's a dead sure connection," said he tohimself.
At sea, to load two hundred thousand rounds of rifle ammunition,seven hundred and fifty rifles, two rapid-fire field guns with ahundred shells, forty bundles of machetes, and a hundred pounds ofdynamite, from yawls, and by men who are not born stevedores, andin a heavy ground swell, and with the searchlight of a UnitedStates cruiser sometimes flashing like lightning in the sky to thesouthward, is no business for a Sunday-school class. When at lasttheFoundling was steaming for the open over the grey sea atdawn, there was not a man of the forty come aboard from the Floridashore, nor of the fifteen sailed from Boston, who was not glad,standing with his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, smilingat the broad wake of theFoundling and the dim streak on thehorizon which was Florida.
But there is a point of the compass in these waters men call thenorth-east. When the strong winds come from that direction theykick up a turmoil that is not good for aFoundling stuffedwith coals and war-stores. In the gale which came, this ship was nomore than a drunken soldier.
The Cuban leader, standing on the bridge with the captain, waspresently informed that of his men, thirty-nine out of a possiblethirty-nine were sea-sick. And in truth they were sea-sick. Thereare degrees in this complaint, but that matter was waived betweenthem. They were all sick to the limits. They strewed the deck inevery posture of human anguish, and when theFoundlingducked and water came sluicing down from the bows, they let itsluice. They were satisfied if they could keep their heads clear ofthe wash; and if they could not keep their heads clear of the wash,they didn't care. Presently theFoundling swung her courseto the south-east, and the waves pounded her broadside. Thepatriots were all ordered below decks, and there they howled andmeasured their misery one against another. All day theFoundling plopped and floundered over a blazing brightmeadow of an ocean whereon the white foam was like flowers.
The captain on the bridge mused and studied the bare horizon."Hell!" said he to himself, and the word was more in amazement thanin indignation or sorrow. "Thirty-nine sea-sick passengers, themate with a broken arm, a stoker with a broken jaw, the cook with apair of scalded legs, and an engine likely to be taken with allthese diseases, if not more! If I get back to a home port with aspoke of the wheel gripped in my hands, it'll be fair luck!"
There is a kind of corn-whisky bred in Florida which the nativesdeclare is potent in the proportion of seven fights to a drink.Some of the Cuban volunteers had had the forethought to bring asmall quantity of this whisky aboard with them, and being now inthe fire-room and sea-sick, feeling that they would not care todrink liquor for two or three years to come, they gracefullytendered their portions to the stokers. The stokers accepted thesegifts without avidity, but with a certain earnestness ofmanner.
As they were stokers, and toiling, the whirl of emotion wasdelayed, but it arrived ultimately, and with emphasis. One stokercalled another stoker a weird name, and the latter, righteouslyinflamed at it, smote his mate with an iron shovel, and the manfell headlong over a heap of coal, which crashed gently while pieceafter piece rattled down upon the deck.
A third stoker was providently enraged at the scene, andassailed the second stoker. They fought for some moments, while thesea-sick Cubans sprawled on the deck watched with languid rollingglances the ferocity of this scuffle. One was so indifferent to thestrategic importance of the space he occupied that he was kicked onthe shins.
When the second engineer came to separating the combatants, hewas sincere in his efforts, and he came near to disabling them forlife.
The captain said, "I'll go down there and—" But the leaderof the Cubans restrained him. "No, no," he cried, "you must not. Wemust treat them like children, very gently, all the time, you see,or else when we get back to a United States port theywill—what you call? Spring? Yes, spring the whole business.We must—jolly them, you see?"
"You mean," said the captain thoughtfully, "they are likely toget mad, and give the expedition dead away when we reach port againunless we blarney them now?"
"Yes, yes," cried the Cuban leader, "unless we are so verygentle with them they will make many troubles afterwards for us inthe newspapers and then in court."
"Well, but I won't have my crew—" began the captain.
"But you must," interrupted the Cuban, "you must. It is the onlything. You are like the captain of a pirate ship. You see? Only youcan't throw them overboard like him. You see?"
"Hum," said the captain, "this here filibustering business hasgot a lot to it when you come to look it over."
He called the fighting stokers to the bridge, and the threecame, meek and considerably battered. He was lecturing them soundlybut sensibly, when he suddenly tripped a sentence andcried—"Here! Where's that other fellow? How does it come hewasn't in the fight?"
The row of stokers cried at once eagerly, "He's hurt, sir. He'sgot a broken jaw, sir."
"So he has; so he has," murmured the captain, muchembarrassed.
And because of all these affairs, theFoundling steamedtoward Cuba with its crew in a sling, if one may be allowed tospeak in that way.
III
At night theFoundling approached the coast like a thief.Her lights were muffled, so that from the deck the sea shone withits own radiance, like the faint shimmer of some kinds of silk. Themen on deck spoke in whispers, and even down in the fire-room thehidden stokers working before the blood-red furnace doors used nowords and walked on tip-toe. The stars were out in the blue-velvetsky, and their light with the soft shine of the sea caused thecoast to appear black as the side of a coffin. The surf boomed inlow thunder on the distant beach.
TheFoundling's engines ceased their thumping for a time.She glided quietly forward until a bell chimed faintly in theengine-room. Then she paused with a flourish of phosphorescentwaters.
"Give the signal," said the captain. Three times a flash oflight went from the bow. There was a moment of waiting. Then an eyelike the one on the coast of Florida opened and closed, opened andclosed, opened and closed. The Cubans, grouped in a great shadow ondeck, burst into a low chatter of delight. A hiss from their leadersilenced them.
"Well?" said the captain.
"All right," said the leader.
At the giving of the word it was not apparent that any one onboard of theFoundling had ever been sea-sick. The boatswere lowered swiftly—too swiftly. Boxes of cartridges weredragged from the hold and passed over the side with a rapidity thatmade men in the boats exclaim against it. They were beingbombarded. When a boat headed for shore its rowers pulled likemadmen. The captain paced slowly to and fro on the bridge. In theengine-room the engineers stood at their station, and in thestoke-hold the firemen fidgeted silently around the furnacedoors.
On the bridge Flanagan reflected. "Oh, I don't know!" heobserved. "This filibustering business isn't so bad. Pretty soonit'll be off to sea again with nothing to do but some big lyingwhen I get into port."
In one of the boats returning from shore came twelve Cubanofficers, the greater number of them convalescing from wounds,while two or three of them had been ordered to America oncommissions from the insurgents. The captain welcomed them, andassured them of a speedy and safe voyage.
Presently he went again to the bridge and scanned the horizon.The sea was lonely like the spaces amid the suns. The captaingrinned and softly smote his chest. "It's dead easy," he said.
It was near the end of the cargo, and the men were breathinglike spent horses, although their elation grew with each moment,when suddenly a voice spoke from the sky. It was not a loud voice,but the quality of it brought every man on deck to full stop andmotionless, as if they had all been changed to wax. "Captain," saidthe man at the masthead, "there's a light to the west'ard, sir.Think it's a steamer, sir."
There was a still moment until the captain called, "Well, keepyour eye on it now." Speaking to the deck, he said, "Go ahead withyour unloading."
The second engineer went to the galley to borrow a tin cup."Hear the news, second?" asked the cook. "Steamer coming up fromthe west'ard."
"Gee!" said the second engineer. In the engine-room he said tothe chief, "Steamer coming up from the west'ard, sir." The chiefengineer began to test various little machines with which hisdomain was decorated. Finally he addressed the stoke-room. "Boys, Iwant you to look sharp now. There's a steamer coming up to thewest'ard."
"All right, sir," said the stoke-room.
From time to time the captain hailed the masthead. "How is shenow?"
"Seems to be coming down on us pretty fast, sir."
The Cuban leader came anxiously to the captain. "Do you think wecan save all the cargo? It is rather delicate business. No?"
"Go ahead," said Flanagan. "Fire away! I'll wait."
There continued the hurried shuffling of feet on deck, and thelow cries of the men unloading the cargo. In the engine-room thechief and his assistant were staring at the gong. In the stoke-roomthe firemen breathed through their teeth. A shovel slipped fromwhere it leaned against the side and banged on the floor. Thestokers started and looked around quickly.
Climbing to the rail and holding on to a stay, the captain gazedwestward. A light had raised out of the deep. After watching thislight for a time he called to the Cuban leader. "Well, as soon asyou're ready now, we might as well be skipping out."
Finally, the Cuban leader told him, "Well, this is the lastload. As soon as the boats come back you can be off."
"Shan't wait for all the boats," said the captain. "That fellowis too close." As the second boat came aboard, theFoundlingturned, and like a black shadow stole seaward to cross the bows ofthe oncoming steamer. "Waited about ten minutes too long," said thecaptain to himself.
Suddenly the light in the west vanished. "Hum!" said Flanagan,"he's up to some meanness." Every one outside of the engine-roomswas set on watch. TheFoundling, going at full speed intothe north-east, slashed a wonderful trail of blue silver on thedark bosom of the sea.
A man on deck cried out hurriedly, "There she is, sir." Manyeyes searched the western gloom, and one after another the glancesof the men found a tiny shadow on the deep with a line of whitebeneath it. "He couldn't be heading better if he had a line to us,"said Flanagan.
There was a thin flash of red in the darkness. It was long andkeen like a crimson rapier. A short, sharp report sounded, and thena shot whined swiftly in the air and blipped into the sea. Thecaptain had been about to take a bite of plug tobacco at thebeginning of this incident, and his arm was raised. He remainedlike a frozen figure while the shot whined, and then, as it blippedinto the sea, his hand went to his mouth and he bit the plug. Helooked wide-eyed at the shadow with its line of white.
The senior Cuban officer came hurriedly to the bridge. "It is nogood to surrender," he cried. "They would only shoot or hang all ofus."
There was another thin red flash and a report. A loud whirringnoise passed over the ship.
"I'm not going to surrender," said the captain, hanging withboth hands to the rail. He appeared like a man whose traditions ofpeace are clinched in his heart. He was as astonished as if his hathad turned into a dog. Presently he wheeled quickly andsaid—"What kind of a gun is that?"
"It is a one-pounder," cried the Cuban officer. "The boat is oneof those little gunboats made from a yacht. You see?"
"Well, if it's only a yawl, he'll sink us in five more minutes,"said Flanagan. For a moment he looked helplessly off at thehorizon. His under-jaw hung low. But a moment later, somethingtouched him, like a stiletto point of inspiration. He leaped to thepilothouse and roared at the man at the wheel. TheFoundlingsheered suddenly to starboard, made a clumsy turn, and Flanagan wasbellowing through the tube to the engine-room before everybodydiscovered that the old basket was heading straight for the Spanishgun-boat. The ship lunged forward like a draught-horse on thegallop.
This strange manoeuvre by theFoundling first dealtconsternation on board of theFoundling. Men instinctivelycrouched on the instant, and then swore their supreme oath, whichwas unheard by their own ears.
Later the manoeuvre of theFoundling dealt consternationon board of the gunboat. She had been going victoriously forwarddim-eyed from the fury of her pursuit. Then this tall threateningshape had suddenly loomed over her like a giant apparition.
The people on board theFoundling heard panic shouts,hoarse orders. The little gunboat was paralyzed withastonishment.
Suddenly Flanagan yelled with rage and sprang for the wheel. Thehelmsman had turned his eyes away. As the captain whirled the wheelfar to starboard he heard a crunch as theFoundling, liftedon a wave, smashed her shoulder against the gunboat, and he sawshooting past a little launch sort of a thing with men on her thatran this way and that way. The Cuban officers, joined by the cookand a seaman, emptied their revolvers into the surprised terror ofthe seas.
There was naturally no pursuit. Under comfortable speed theFoundling stood to the northwards.
The captain went to his berth chuckling. "There, by God!" hesaid. "There now!"
IV
When Flanagan came again on deck, the first mate, his arm in asling, walked the bridge. Flanagan was smiling a wide smile. Thebridge of theFoundling was dipping afar and then afar. Witheach lunge of the little steamer the water seethed and boomedalongside, and the spray dashed high and swiftly.
"Well," said Flanagan, inflating himself, "we've had a greatdeal of a time, and we've come through it all right, and thankHeaven it is all over."
The sky in the north-east was of a dull brick-red in tone,shaded here and there by black masses that billowed out in somefashion from the flat heavens.
"Look there," said the mate.
"Hum!" said the captain. "Looks like a blow, don't it?"
Later the surface of the water rippled and flickered in thepreliminary wind. The sea had become the colour of lead. Theswashing sound of the waves on the sides of theFoundlingwas now provided with some manner of ominous significance. Themen's shouts were hoarse.
A squall struck theFoundling on her starboard quarter,and she leaned under the force of it as if she were never to returnto the even keel. "I'll be glad when we get in," said the mate."I'm going to quit then. I've got enough."
"Hell!" said the beaming Flanagan.
The steamer crawled on into the north-west. The white water,sweeping out from her, deadened the chug-chug-chug of the tired oldengines.
Once, when the boat careened, she laid her shoulder flat on thesea and rested in that manner. The mate, looking down the bridge,which slanted more than a coal-shute, whistled softly to himself.Slowly, heavily, theFoundling arose to meet anothersea.
At night waves thundered mightily on the bows of the steamer,and water lit with the beautiful phosphorescent glamour wentboiling and howling along deck.
By good fortune the chief engineer crawled safely, but utterlydrenched, to the galley for coffee. "Well, how goes it, chief?"said the cook, standing with his fat arms folded in order to provethat he could balance himself under any conditions.
The engineer shook his head dejectedly. "This old biscuit-boxwill never see port again. Why, she'll fall to pieces."
Finally at night the captain said, "Launch the boats." TheCubans hovered about him. "Is the ship going to sink?" The captainaddressed them politely. "Gentlemen, we are in trouble, but all Iask of you is that you just do what I tell you, and no harm willcome to anybody."
The mate directed the lowering of the first boat, and the menperformed this task with all decency, like people at the side of agrave.
A young oiler came to the captain. "The chief sends word, sir,that the water is almost up to the fires."
"Keep at it as long as you can."
"Keep at it as long as we can, sir?"
Flanagan took the senior Cuban officer to the rail, and, as thesteamer sheered high on a great sea, showed him a yellow dot on thehorizon. It was smaller than a needle when its point is towardsyou.
"There," said the captain. The wind-driven spray was lashing hisface. "That's Jupiter Light on the Florida coast. Put your men inthe boat we've just launched, and the mate will take you to thatlight."
Afterwards Flanagan turned to the chief engineer. "We can neverbeach," said the old man. "The stokers have got to quit in aminute." Tears were in his eyes.
TheFoundling was a wounded thing. She lay on the waterwith gasping engines, and each wave resembled her death-blow.
Now the way of a good ship on the sea is finer than sword-play.But this is when she is alive. If a time comes that the ship dies,then her way is the way of a floating old glove, and she has thatmuch vim, spirit, buoyancy. At this time many men on theFoundling suddenly came to know that they were clinging to acorpse.
The captain went to the stoke-room, and what he saw as he swungdown the companion suddenly turned him hesitant and dumb. Water wasswirling to and fro with the roll of the ship, fuming greasilyaround half-strangled machinery that still attempted to perform itsduty. Steam arose from the water, and through its clouds shone thered glare of the dying fires. As for the stokers, death might havebeen with silence in this room. One lay in his berth, his handsunder his head, staring moodily at the wall. One sat near the footof the companion, his face hidden in his arms. One leaned againstthe side and gazed at the snarling water as it rose, and its madeddies among the machinery. In the unholy red light and grey mistof this stifling dim Inferno they were strange figures with theirsilence and their immobility. The wretchedFoundling groaneddeeply as she lifted, and groaned deeply as she sank into thetrough, while hurried waves then thundered over her with the noiseof landslides. The terrified machinery was making gestures.
But Flanagan took control of himself suddenly. Then he stirredthe fire-room. The stillness had been so unearthly that he was notaltogether inapprehensive of strange and grim deeds when he chargedinto them; but precisely as they had submitted to the sea so theysubmitted to Flanagan. For a moment they rolled their eyes likehurt cows, but they obeyed the Voice. The situation simply requireda Voice.
When the captain returned to the deck the hue of this fire-roomwas in his mind, and then he understood doom and its weight andcomplexion.
When finally theFoundling sank she shifted and settledas calmly as an animal curls down in the bush grass. Away over thewaves two bobbing boats paused to witness this quiet death. It wasa slow manoeuvre, altogether without the pageantry of uproar, butit flashed pallor into the faces of all men who saw it, and theygroaned when they said, "There she goes!" Suddenly the captainwhirled and knocked his hand on the gunwale. He sobbed for a time,and then he sobbed and swore also.
* * *
There was a dance at the Imperial Inn. During the evening someirresponsible young men came from the beach bringing the statementthat several boatloads of people had been perceived off shore. Itwas a charming dance, and none cared to take time to believe thistale. The fountain in the court-yard splashed softly, and coupleafter couple paraded through the aisles of palms, where lamps withred shades threw a rose light upon the gleaming leaves. The bandplayed its waltzes slumberously, and its music came faintly to thepeople among the palms.
Sometimes a woman said—"Oh, it is not really true, is it,that there was a wreck out at sea?"
A man usually said—"No, of course not."
At last, however, a youth came violently from the beach. He wastriumphant in manner. "They're out there," he cried. "A wholeboat-load!" He received eager attention, and he told all that hesupposed. His news destroyed the dance. After a time the band wasplaying beautifully to space. The guests had hurried to the beach.One little girl cried, "Oh, mamma, may I go too?" Being refusedpermission she pouted.
As they came from the shelter of the great hotel, the wind wasblowing swiftly from the sea, and at intervals a breaker shonelivid. The women shuddered, and their bending companions seized theopportunity to draw the cloaks closer.
"Oh, dear!" said a girl; "supposin' they were out there drowningwhile we were dancing!"
"Oh, nonsense!" said her younger brother; "that don'thappen."
"Well, it might, you know, Roger. How can you tell?"
A man who was not her brother gazed at her then with profoundadmiration. Later, she complained of the damp sand, and, drawingback her skirts, looked ruefully at her little feet.
A mother's son was venturing too near to the water in hisinterest and excitement. Occasionally she cautioned and reproachedhim from the background.
Save for the white glare of the breakers, the sea was a greatwind-crossed void. From the throng of charming women floated theperfume of many flowers. Later there floated to them a body with acalm face of an Irish type. The expedition of theFoundlingwill never be historic.
Richardson pulled up his horse, and looked back over the trailwhere the crimson serape of his servant flamed amid the dusk of themesquit. The hills in the west were carved into peaks, and werepainted the most profound blue. Above them the sky was of thatmarvellous tone of green—like still, sun-shotwater—which people denounce in pictures.
José was muffled deep in his blanket, and his great topplingsombrero was drawn low over his brow. He shadowed his master alongthe dimming trail in the fashion of an assassin. A cold wind of theimpending night swept over the wilderness of mesquit.
"Man," said Richardson in lame Mexican as the servant drew near,"I want eat! I want sleep! Understand—no? Quickly!Understand?"
"Si, señor," said José, nodding. He stretched one arm out of hisblanket and pointed a yellow finger into the gloom. "Over there,small village. Si, señor."
They rode forward again. Once the American's horse shied andbreathed quiveringly at something which he saw or imagined in thedarkness, and the rider drew a steady, patient rein, and leanedover to speak tenderly as if he were addressing a frightened woman.The sky had faded to white over the mountains, and the plain was avast, pointless ocean of black.
Suddenly some low houses appeared squatting amid the bushes. Thehorsemen rode into a hollow until the houses rose against thesombre sundown sky, and then up a small hillock, causing thesehabitations to sink like boats in the sea of shadow.
A beam of red firelight fell across the trail. Richardson satsleepily on his horse while his servant quarrelled withsomebody—a mere voice in the gloom—over the price ofbed and board. The houses about him were for the most part liketombs in their whiteness and silence, but there were scudding blackfigures that seemed interested in his arrival.
José came at last to the horses' heads, and the American slidstiffly from his seat. He muttered a greeting, as with his spurredfeet he clicked into the adobe house that confronted him. The brownstolid face of a woman shone in the light of the fire. He seatedhimself on the earthen floor and blinked drowsily at the blaze. Hewas aware that the woman was clinking earthenware, and hieing hereand everywhere in the manoeuvres of the housewife. From a darkcorner there came the sound of two or three snores twiningtogether.
The woman handed him a bowl of tortillas. She was a submissivecreature, timid and large-eyed. She gazed at his enormous silverspurs, his large and impressive revolver, with the interest andadmiration of the highly-privileged cat of the adage. When he ate,she seemed transfixed off there in the gloom, her white teethshining.
José entered, staggering under two Mexican saddles, large enoughfor building-sites. Richardson decided to smoke a cigarette, andthen changed his mind. It would be much finer to go to sleep. Hisblanket hung over his left shoulder, furled into a long pipe ofcloth, according to the Mexican fashion. By doffing his sombrero,unfastening his spurs and his revolver belt, he made himself readyfor the slow, blissful twist into the blanket. Like a cautious manhe lay close to the wall, and all his property was very near hishand.
The mesquit brush burned long. José threw two gigantic wings ofshadow as he flapped his blanket about him—first across hischest under his arms, and then around his neck and across his chestagain—this time over his arms, with the end tossed on hisright shoulder. A Mexican thus snugly enveloped can neverthelessfree his fighting arm in a beautifully brisk way, merely shrugginghis shoulder as he grabs for the weapon at his belt. (They alwayswear their serapes in this manner.)
The firelight smothered the rays which, streaming from a moon aslarge as a drum-head, were struggling at the open door. Richardsonheard from the plain the fine, rhythmical trample of the hoofs ofhurried horses. He went to sleep wondering who rode so fast and solate. And in the deep silence the pale rays of the moon must haveprevailed against the red spears of the fire until the room wasslowly flooded to its middle with a rectangle of silver light.
Richardson was awakened by the sound of a guitar. It was badlyplayed—in this land of Mexico, from which the romance of theinstrument ascends to us like a perfume. The guitar was groaningand whining like a badgered soul. A noise of scuffling feetaccompanied the music. Sometimes laughter arose, and often thevoices of men saying bitter things to each other, but always theguitar cried on, the treble sounding as if some one were beatingiron, and the bass humming like bees. "Damn it—they're havinga dance," he muttered, fretfully. He heard two men quarrelling inshort, sharp words, like pistol shots; they were calling each otherworse names than common people know in other countries. He wonderedwhy the noise was so loud. Raising his head from his saddle pillow,he saw, with the help of the valiant moonbeams, a blanket hangingflat against the wall at the further end of the room. Being ofopinion that it concealed a door, and remembering that Mexicandrink made men very drunk, he pulled his revolver closer to him andprepared for sudden disaster.
Richardson was dreaming of his far and beloved north.
"Well, I would kill him, then!"
"No, you must not!"
"Yes, I will kill him! Listen! I will ask this American beastfor his beautiful pistol and spurs and money and saddle, and if hewill not give them—you will see!"
"But these Americans—they are a strange people. Look out,señor."
Then twenty voices took part in the discussion. They rose inquavering shrillness, as from men badly drunk. Richardson felt theskin draw tight around his mouth, and his knee-joints turned tobread. He slowly came to a sitting posture, glaring at themotionless blanket at the far end of the room. This stiff andmechanical movement, accomplished entirely by the muscles of thewaist, must have looked like the rising of a corpse in the wanmoonlight, which gave everything a hue of the grave.
My friend, take my advice and never be executed by a hangman whodoesn't talk the English language. It, or anything that resemblesit, is the most difficult of deaths. The tumultuous emotions ofRichardson's terror destroyed that slow and careful process ofthought by means of which he understood Mexican. Then he used hisinstinctive comprehension of the first and universal language,which is tone. Still, it is disheartening not to be able tounderstand the detail of threats against the blood of yourbody.
Suddenly, the clamour of voices ceased. There was asilence—a silence of decision. The blanket was flung aside,and the red light of a torch flared into the room. It was held highby a fat, round-faced Mexican, whose little snake-like moustachewas as black as his eyes, and whose eyes were black as jet. He wasinsane with the wild rage of a man whose liquor is dully burning athis brain. Five or six of his fellows crowded after him. Theguitar, which had been thrummed doggedly during the time of thehigh words, now suddenly stopped. They contemplated each other.Richardson sat very straight and still, his right hand lost in hisblanket. The Mexicans jostled in the light of the torch, their eyesblinking and glittering.
The fat one posed in the manner of a grandee. Presently his handdropped to his belt, and from his lips there spun anepithet—a hideous word which often foreshadows knife-blows, aword peculiarly of Mexico, where people have to dig deep to find aninsult that has not lost its savour. The American did not move. Hewas staring at the fat Mexican with a strange fixedness of gaze,not fearful, not dauntless, not anything that could be interpreted.He simply stared.
The fat Mexican must have been disconcerted, for he continued topose as a grandee, with more and more sublimity, until it wouldhave been easy for him to have fallen over backward. His companionswere swaying very drunkenly. They still blinked their little beadyeyes at Richardson. Ah, well, sirs, here was a mystery! At theapproach of their menacing company, why did not this American cryout and turn pale, or run, or pray them mercy? The animal merelysat still, and stared, and waited for them to begin. Well,evidently he was a great fighter! Or perhaps he was an idiot?Indeed, this was an embarrassing situation, for who was goingforward to discover whether he was a great fighter or an idiot?
To Richardson, whose nerves were tingling and twitching likelive wires, and whose heart jolted inside him, this pause was along horror; and for these men, who could so frighten him, therebegan to swell in him a fierce hatred—a hatred that made himlong to be capable of fighting all of them, a hatred that made himcapable of fighting all of them. A 44-calibre revolver can make ahole large enough for little boys to shoot marbles through; andthere was a certain fat Mexican with a moustache like a snake whocame extremely near to have eaten his last tomale merely because hefrightened a man too much.
José had slept the first part of the night in his fashion, hisbody hunched into a heap, his legs crooked, his head touching hisknees. Shadows had obscured him from the sight of the invaders. Atthis point he arose, and began to prowl quakingly over towardRichardson, as if he meant to hide behind him.
Of a sudden the fat Mexican gave a howl of glee. José had comewithin the torch's circle of light. With roars of ferocity thewhole group of Mexicans pounced on the American's servant. Heshrank shuddering away from them, beseeching by every device ofword and gesture. They pushed him this way and that. They beat himwith their fists. They stung him with their curses. As he grovelledon his knees, the fat Mexican took him by the throat andsaid—"I am going to kill you!" And continually they turnedtheir eyes to see if they were to succeed in causing the initialdemonstration by the American. But he looked on impassively. Underthe blanket his fingers were clenched, as iron, upon the handle ofhis revolver.
Here suddenly two brilliant clashing chords from the guitar wereheard, and a woman's voice, full of laughter and confidence, criedfrom without—"Hello! hello! Where are you?" The lurchingcompany of Mexicans instantly paused and looked at the ground. Onesaid, as he stood with his legs wide apart in order to balancehimself—"It is the girls. They have come!" He screamed inanswer to the question of the woman—"Here!" And withoutwaiting he started on a pilgrimage toward the blanket-covered door.One could now hear a number of female voices giggling andchattering.
Two other Mexicans said—"Yes, it is the girls! Yes!" Theyalso started quietly away. Even the fat Mexican's ferocity seemedto be affected. He looked uncertainly at the still immovableAmerican. Two of his friends grasped him gaily—"Come, thegirls are here! Come!" He cast another glower at Richardson. "Butthis—," he began. Laughing, his comrades hustled him towardthe door. On its threshold, and holding back the blanket, with onehand, he turned his yellow face with a last challenging glaretoward the American. José, bewailing his state in little sobs ofutter despair and woe, crept to Richardson and huddled near hisknee. Then the cries of the Mexicans meeting the girls were heard,and the guitar burst out in joyous humming.
The moon clouded, and but a faint square of light fell throughthe open main door of the house. The coals of the fire were silent,save for occasional sputters. Richardson did not change hisposition. He remained staring at the blanket which hid thestrategic door in the far end. At his knees José was arguing, in alow, aggrieved tone, with the saints. Without, the Mexicans laughedand danced, and—it would appear from the sound—drankmore.
In the stillness and the night Richardson sat wondering if someserpent-like Mexican were sliding towards him in the darkness, andif the first thing he knew of it would be the deadly sting of aknife. "Sssh," he whispered, to José. He drew his revolver fromunder the blanket, and held it on his leg. The blanket over thedoor fascinated him. It was a vague form, black and unmoving.Through the opening it shielded were to come, probably, threats,death. Sometimes he thought he saw it move. As grim white sheets,the black and silver of coffins, all the panoply of death, affectus, because of that which they hide, so this blanket, danglingbefore a hole in an adobe wall, was to Richardson a horribleemblem, and a horrible thing in itself. In his present mood hecould not have been brought to touch it with his finger.
The celebrating Mexicans occasionally howled in song. Theguitarist played with speed and enthusiasm. Richardson longed torun. But in this vibrating and threatening gloom his terrorconvinced him that a move on his part would be a signal for thepounce of death. José, crouching abjectly, mumbled now and again.Slowly, and ponderous as stars, the minutes went.
Suddenly Richardson thrilled and started. His breath for amoment left him. In sleep his nerveless fingers had allowed hisrevolver to fall and clang upon the hard floor. He grabbed it uphastily, and his glance swept apprehensively over the room. A chillblue light of dawn was in the place. Every outline was slowlygrowing; detail was following detail. The dread blanket did notmove. The riotous company had gone or fallen silent. He felt theeffect of this cold dawn in his blood. The candour of breaking daybrought his nerve. He touched José. "Come," he said. His servantlifted his lined yellow face, and comprehended. Richardson buckledon his spurs and strode up; José obediently lifted the two greatsaddles. Richardson held two bridles and a blanket on his left arm;in his right hand he had his revolver. They sneaked toward thedoor.
The man who said that spurs jingled was insane. Spurs have amellow clash—clash—clash. Walking inspurs—notably Mexican spurs—you remind yourself vaguelyof a telegraphic linesman. Richardson was inexpressibly shockedwhen he came to walk. He sounded to himself like a pair of cymbals.He would have known of this if he had reflected; but then, he wasescaping, not reflecting. He made a gesture of despair, and fromunder the two saddles José tried to make one of hopeless horror.Richardson stooped, and with shaking fingers unfastened the spurs.Taking them in his left hand, he picked up his revolver, and theyslunk on toward the door. On the threshold he looked back. In acorner he saw, watching him with large eyes, the Indian man andwoman who had been his hosts. Throughout the night they had made nosign, and now they neither spoke nor moved. Yet Richardson thoughthe detected meek satisfaction at his departure.
The street was still and deserted. In the eastern sky there wasa lemon-coloured patch. José had picketed the horses at the side ofthe house. As the two men came round the corner Richardson's beastset up a whinny of welcome. The little horse had heard them coming.He stood facing them, his ears cocked forward, his eyes bright withwelcome.
Richardson made a frantic gesture, but the horse, in hishappiness at the appearance of his friends, whinnied withenthusiasm. The American felt that he could have strangled hiswell-beloved steed. Upon the threshold of safety, he was beingbetrayed by his horse, his friend! He felt the same hate that hewould have felt for a dragon. And yet, as he glanced wildly abouthim, he could see nothing stirring in the street, nothing at thedoors of the tomb-like houses.
José had his own saddle-girth and both bridles buckled in amoment. He curled the picket-ropes with a few sweeps of his arm.The American's fingers, however, were shaking so that he couldhardly buckle the girth. His hands were in invisible mittens. Hewas wondering, calculating, hoping about his horse. He knew thelittle animal's willingness and courage under all circumstances upto this time; but then—here it was different. Who could tellif some wretched instance of equine perversity was not about todevelop? Maybe the little fellow would not feel like smoking overthe plain at express speed this morning, and so he would rebel, andkick, and be wicked. Maybe he would be without feeling of interest,and run listlessly. All riders who have had to hurry in the saddleknow what it is to be on a horse who does not understand thedramatic situation. Riding a lame sheep is bliss to it. Richardson,fumbling furiously at the girth, thought of these things.
Presently he had it fastened. He swung into the saddle, and ashe did so his horse made a mad jump forward. The spurs of Joséscratched and tore the flanks of his great black beast, and side byside the two horses raced down the village street. The Americanheard his horse breathe a quivering sigh of excitement. Those fourfeet skimmed. They were as light as fairy puff balls. The housesglided past in a moment, and the great, clear, silent plainappeared like a pale blue sea of mist and wet bushes. Above themountains the colours of the sunlight were like the first tones,the opening chords of the mighty hymn of the morning.
The American looked down at his horse. He felt in his heart thefirst thrill of confidence. The little animal, unurged and quitetranquil, moving his ears this way and that way with an air ofinterest in the scenery, was nevertheless bounding into the eye ofthe breaking day with the speed of a frightened antelope.Richardson, looking down, saw the long, fine reach of forelimb assteady as steel machinery. As the ground reeled past, the long,dried grasses hissed, and cactus plants were dull blurs. A windwhirled the horse's mane over his rider's bridle hand.
José's profile was lined against the pale sky. It was as that ofa man who swims alone in an ocean. His eyes glinted like metal,fastened on some unknown point ahead of him, some fabulous place ofsafety. Occasionally his mouth puckered in a little unheard cry;and his legs, bended back, worked spasmodically as his spurredheels sliced his charger's sides.
Richardson consulted the gloom in the west for signs of ahard-riding, yelling cavalcade. He knew that, whereas his friendsthe enemy had not attacked him when he had sat still and withapparent calmness confronted them, they would take furiously afterhim now that he had run from them—now that he had confessedhimself the weaker. Their valour would grow like weeds in thespring, and upon discovering his escape they would ride forthdauntless warriors. Sometimes he was sure he saw them. Sometimes hewas sure he heard them. Continually looking backward over hisshoulder, he studied the purple expanses where the night wasmarching away. José rolled and shuddered in his saddle,persistently disturbing the stride of the black horse, fretting andworrying him until the white foam flew, and the great shouldersshone like satin from the sweat.
At last, Richardson drew his horse carefully down to a walk.José wished to rush insanely on, but the American spoke to himsternly. As the two paced forward side by side, Richardson's littlehorse thrust over his soft nose and inquired into the black'scondition.
Riding with José was like riding with a corpse. His faceresembled a cast in lead. Sometimes he swung forward and almostpitched from his seat. Richardson was too frightened himself to doanything but hate this man for his fear. Finally, he issued amandate which nearly caused José's eyes to slide out of his headand fall to the ground, like two coins:—"Ride behindme—about fifty paces."
"Señor—" stuttered the servant. "Go," cried the Americanfuriously. He glared at the other and laid his hand on hisrevolver. José looked at his master wildly. He made a piteousgesture. Then slowly he fell back, watching the hard face of theAmerican for a sign of mercy. But Richardson had resolved in hisrage that at any rate he was going to use the eyes and ears ofextreme fear to detect the approach of danger; so he establishedhis panic-stricken servant as a sort of outpost.
As they proceeded, he was obliged to watch sharply to see thatthe servant did not slink forward and join him. When José madebeseeching circles in the air with his arm, he replied bymenacingly gripping his revolver. José had a revolver too;nevertheless it was very clear in his mind that the revolver wasdistinctly an American weapon. He had been educated in the RioGrande country.
Richardson lost the trail once. He was recalled to it by theloud sobs of his servant.
Then at last José came clattering forward, gesticulating andwailing. The little horse sprang to the shoulder of the black. Theywere off.
Richardson, again looking backward, could see a slanting flareof dust on the whitening plain. He thought that he could detectsmall moving figures in it.
José's moans and cries amounted to a university course intheology. They broke continually from his quivering lips. His spurswere as motors. They forced the black horse over the plain in greatheadlong leaps. But under Richardson there was a littleinsignificant rat-coloured beast who was running apparently withalmost as much effort as it takes a bronze statue to stand still.The ground seemed merely something to be touched from time to timewith hoofs that were as light as blown leaves. OccasionallyRichardson lay back and pulled stoutly at the bridle to keep fromabandoning his servant. José harried at his horse's mouth, floppedabout in the saddle, and made his two heels beat like flails. Theblack ran like a horse in despair.
Crimson serapes in the distance resemble drops of blood on thegreat cloth of plain. Richardson began to dream of all possiblechances. Although quite a humane man, he did not once think of hisservant. José being a Mexican, it was natural that he should bekilled in Mexico; but for himself, a New Yorker—! Heremembered all the tales of such races for life, and he thoughtthem badly written.
The great black horse was growing indifferent. The jabs ofJosé's spurs no longer caused him to bound forward in wild leaps ofpain. José had at last succeeded in teaching him that spurring wasto be expected, speed or no speed, and now he took the pain of itdully and stolidly, as an animal who finds that doing his bestgains him no respite. José was turned into a raving maniac. Hebellowed and screamed, working his arms and his heels like one in afit. He resembled a man on a sinking ship, who appeals to the ship.Richardson, too, cried madly to the black horse. The spirit of thehorse responded to these calls, and quivering and breathing heavilyhe made a great effort, a sort of a final rush, not for himselfapparently, but because he understood that his life's sacrifice,perhaps, had been invoked by these two men who cried to him in theuniversal tongue. Richardson had no sense of appreciation at thistime—he was too frightened; but often now he remembers acertain black horse.
From the rear could be heard a yelling, and once a shot wasfired—in the air, evidently. Richardson moaned as he lookedback. He kept his hand on his revolver. He tried to imagine thebrief tumult of his capture—the flurry of dust from the hoofsof horses pulled suddenly to their haunches, the shrill, bitingcurses of the men, the ring of the shots, his own last contortion.He wondered, too, if he could not somehow manage to pelt that fatMexican, just to cure his abominable egotism.
It was José, the terror-stricken, who at last discovered safety.Suddenly he gave a howl of delight and astonished his horse into anew burst of speed. They were on a little ridge at the time, andthe American at the top of it saw his servant gallop down the slopeand into the arms, so to speak, of a small column of horsemen ingrey and silver clothes. In the dim light of the early morning theywere as vague as shadows, but Richardson knew them at once for adetachment of Rurales, that crack cavalry corps of the Mexican armywhich polices the plain so zealously, being of themselves the lawand the arm of it—a fierce and swift-moving body that knowslittle of prevention but much of vengeance. They drew up suddenly,and the rows of great silver-trimmed sombreros bobbed insurprise.
Richardson saw José throw himself from his horse and begin tojabber at the leader. When he arrived he found that his servant hadalready outlined the entire situation, and was then engaged indescribing him, Richardson, as an American señor of vast wealth,who was the friend of almost every governmental potentate withintwo hundred miles. This seemed profoundly to impress the officer.He bowed gravely to Richardson and smiled significantly at his men,who unslung their carbines.
The little ridge hid the pursuers from view, but the rapid thudof their horses' feet could be heard. Occasionally they yelled andcalled to each other. Then at last they swept over the brow of thehill, a wild mob of almost fifty drunken horsemen. When theydiscerned the pale-uniformed Rurales, they were sailing down theslope at top speed.
If toboggans half-way down a hill should suddenly make up theirminds to turn round and go back, there would be an effect somethinglike that produced by the drunken horsemen. Richardson saw theRurales serenely swing their carbines forward, and, peculiar-mindedperson that he was, felt his heart leap into his throat at theprospective volley. But the officer rode forward alone.
It appeared that the man who owned the best horse in thisastonished company was the fat Mexican with the snaky moustache,and, in consequence, this gentleman was quite a distance in thevan. He tried to pull up, wheel his horse, and scuttle back overthe hill as some of his companions had done, but the officer calledto him in a voice harsh with rage. "—!" howled the officer."This señor is my friend, the friend of my friends. Do you darepursue him,—?—!—!—!—!" These dashesrepresent terrible names, all different, used by the officer.
The fat Mexican simply grovelled on his horse's neck. His facewas green: it could be seen that he expected death. The officerstormed with magnificent intensity: "—!—!—!"Finally he sprang from his saddle, and, running to the fatMexican's side, yelled—"Go!" and kicked the horse in thebelly with all his might. The animal gave a mighty leap into theair, and the fat Mexican, with one wretched glance at thecontemplative Rurales, aimed his steed for the top of the ridge.Richardson gulped again in expectation of a volley, for—it issaid—this is a favourite method for disposing ofobjectionable people. The fat, green Mexican also thought that hewas to be killed on the run, from the miserable look he cast at thetroops. Nevertheless, he was allowed to vanish in a cloud of yellowdust at the ridge-top.
José was exultant, defiant, and, oh! bristling with courage. Theblack horse was drooping sadly, his nose to the ground.Richardson's little animal, with his ears bent forward, was staringat the horses of the Rurales as if in an intense study. Richardsonlonged for speech, but he could only bend forward and pat theshining, silken shoulders. The little horse turned his head andlooked back gravely.
I
The peasants who were streaming down the mountain trail had intheir sharp terror evidently lost their ability to count. Thecattle and the huge round bundles seemed to suffice to the minds ofthe crowd if there were now two in each case where there had beenthree. This brown stream poured on with a constant wastage of goodsand beasts. A goat fell behind to scout the dried grass and itsowner, howling, flogging his donkeys, passed far ahead. A colt,suddenly frightened, made a stumbling charge up the hill-side. Theexpenditure was always profligate and always unnamed, unnoted. Itwas as if fear was a river, and this horde had simply been caughtin the torrent, man tumbling over beast, beast over man, ashelpless in it as the logs that fall and shoulder grindinglythrough the gorges of a lumber country. It was a freshet that mightsear the face of the tall quiet mountain; it might draw a lividline across the land, this downpour of fear with a thousand homesadrift in the current—men, women, babes, animals. From itthere arose a constant babble of tongues, shrill, broken, andsometimes choking as from men drowning. Many made gestures,painting their agonies on the air with fingers that twirledswiftly.
The blue bay with its pointed ships and the white town lay belowthem, distant, flat, serene. There was upon this vista a peace thata bird knows when high in the air it surveys the world, a greatcalm thing rolling noiselessly toward the end of the mystery. Hereon the height one felt the existence of the universe scornfullydefining the pain in ten thousand minds. The sky was an arch ofstolid sapphire. Even to the mountains raising their mighty shapesfrom the valley, this headlong rush of the fugitives was toominute. The sea, the sky, and the hills combined in their grandeurto term this misery inconsequent. Then too it sometimes happenedthat a face seen as it passed on the flood reflected curiously thespirit of them all and still more. One saw then a woman of theopinion of the vaults above the clouds. When a child cried it criedalways because of some adjacent misfortune, some discomfort of apack-saddle or rudeness of an encircling arm. In the dismal melodyof this flight there were often sounding chords of apathy. Intothese preoccupied countenances, one felt that needles could bethrust without purchasing a scream. The trail wound here and thereas the sheep had willed in the making of it.
Although this throng seemed to prove that the whole of humanitywas fleeing in one direction—with every tie severed thatbinds us to the soil—a young man was walking rapidly up themountain, hastening to a side of the path from time to time toavoid some particularly wide rush of people and cattle. He lookedat everything in agitation and pity. Frequently he calledadmonitions to maniacal fugitives, and at other moments heexchanged strange stares with the imperturbable ones. They seemedto him to wear merely the expressions of so many boulders rollingdown the hill. He exhibited wonder and awe with his pityingglances.
Turning once toward the rear, he saw a man in the uniform of alieutenant of infantry marching the same way. He waited then,subconsciously elate at a prospect of being able to make into wordsthe emotion which heretofore had only been expressed in the flashof eyes and sensitive movements of his flexible mouth. He spoke tothe officer in rapid French, waving his arms wildly, and oftenpointing with a dramatic finger. "Ah, this is too cruel, too cruel,too cruel. Is it not? I did not think it would be as bad as this. Idid not think—God's mercy—I did not think at all. Andyet I am a Greek. Or at least my father was a Greek. I did not comehere to fight. I am really a correspondent, you see? I was to writefor an Italian paper. I have been educated in Italy. I have spentnearly all my life in Italy. At the schools and universities! Iknew nothing of war! I was a student—a student. I came heremerely because my father was a Greek, and for his sake I thought ofGreece—I loved Greece. But I did not dream—"
He paused, breathing heavily. His eyes glistened from that softoverflow which comes on occasion to the glance of a young woman.Eager, passionate, profoundly moved, his first words, while facingthe procession of fugitives, had been an active definition of hisown dimension, his personal relation to men, geography, life.Throughout he had preserved the fiery dignity of a tragedian.
The officer's manner at once deferred to this outburst. "Yes,"he said, polite but mournful, "these poor people! These poorpeople! I do not know what is to become of these poor people."
The young man declaimed again. "I had no dream—I had nodream that it would be like this! This is too cruel! Too cruel! NowI want to be a soldier. Now I want to fight. Now I want to dobattle for the land of my father." He made a sweeping gesture intothe north-west.
The officer was also a young man, but he was very bronzed andsteady. Above his high military collar of crimson cloth with onesilver star upon it, appeared a profile stern, quiet, andconfident, respecting fate, fearing only opinion. His clothes werecovered with dust; the only bright spot was the flame of thecrimson collar. At the violent cries of his companion he smiled asif to himself, meanwhile keeping his eyes fixed in a glanceahead.
From a land toward which their faces were bent came a continuousboom of artillery fire. It was sounding in regular measures likethe beating of a colossal clock, a clock that was counting theseconds in the lives of the stars, and men had time to die betweenthe ticks. Solemn, oracular, inexorable, the great seconds tolledover the hills as if God fronted this dial rimmed by the horizon.The soldier and the correspondent found themselves silent. Thelatter in particular was sunk in a great mournfulness, as if he hadresolved willy-nilly to swing to the bottom of the abyss wheredwell secrets of his kind, and had learned beforehand that all tobe met there was cruelty and hopelessness. A strap of his brightnew leather leggings came unfastened, and he bowed over it slowly,impressively, as one bending over the grave of a child.
Then suddenly, the reverberations mingled until one could notseparate an explosion from another, and into the hubbub came thedrawling sound of a leisurely musketry fire. Instantly, for somereason of cadence, the noise was irritating, silly, infantile. Thisuproar was childish. It forced the nerves to object, to protestagainst this racket which was as idle as the din of a lad with adrum.
The lieutenant lifted his finger and pointed. He spoke in vexedtones, as if he held the other man personally responsible for thenoise. "Well, there!" he said. "If you wish for war you now have anopportunity magnificent."
The correspondent raised himself upon his toes. He tapped hischest with gloomy pride. "Yes! There is war! There is the war Iwish to enter. I fling myself in. I am a Greek, a Greek, youunderstand. I wish to fight for my country. You know the way. Leadme. I offer myself." Struck by a sudden thought he brought a casefrom his pocket, and extracting a card handed it to the officerwith a bow. "My name is Peza," he said simply.
A strange smile passed over the soldier's face. There was pityand pride—the vanity of experience—and contempt in it."Very well," he said, returning the bow. "If my company is in themiddle of the fight I shall be glad for the honour of yourcompanionship. If my company is not in the middle of thefight—I will make other arrangements for you."
Peza bowed once more, very stiffly, and correctly spoke histhanks. On the edge of what he took to be a great venture towarddeath, he discovered that he was annoyed at something in thelieutenant's tone. Things immediately assumed new and extraordinaryproportions. The battle, the great carnival of woe, was sunk atonce to an equation with a vexation by a stranger. He wanted to askthe lieutenant what was his meaning. He bowed again majestically;the lieutenant bowed. They flung a shadow of manners, of caperingtinsel ceremony across a land that groaned, and it satisfiedsomething within themselves completely.
In the meantime, the river of fleeing villagers had changed tosimply a last dropping of belated creatures, who fled paststammering and flinging their hands high. The two men had come tothe top of the great hill. Before them was a green plain as levelas an inland sea. It swept northward, and merged finally into alength of silvery mist. Upon the near part of this plain, and upontwo grey treeless mountains at the side of it, were little blacklines from which floated slanting sheets of smoke. It was not abattle to the nerves. One could survey it with equanimity, as if itwere a tea-table; but upon Peza's mind it struck a loud clangingblow. It was war. Edified, aghast, triumphant, he paused suddenly,his lips apart. He remembered the pageants of carnage that hadmarched through the dreams of his childhood. Love he knew that hehad confronted, alone, isolated, wondering, an individual, an atomtaking the hand of a titanic principle. But, like the faintestbreeze on his forehead, he felt here the vibration from the heartsof forty thousand men.
The lieutenant's nostrils were moving. "I must go at once," hesaid. "I must go at once."
"I will go with you wherever you go," shouted Peza loudly.
A primitive track wound down the side of the mountain, and intheir rush they bounded from here to there, choosing risks which inthe ordinary caution of man would surely have seemed of remarkabledanger. The ardour of the correspondent surpassed the full energyof the soldier. Several times he turned and shouted, "Come on! Comeon!"
At the foot of the path they came to a wide road, which extendedtoward the battle in a yellow and straight line. Some men weretrudging wearily to the rear. They were without rifles; theirclumsy uniforms were dirty and all awry. They turned eyes dullyaglow with fever upon the pair striding toward the battle. Otherswere bandaged with the triangular kerchief upon which one couldstill see through bloodstains the little explanatory picturesillustrating the ways to bind various wounds. "Fig. 1."—"Fig.2."—"Fig. 7." Mingled with the pacing soldiers were peasants,indifferent, capable of smiling, gibbering about the battle, whichwas to them an ulterior drama. A man was leading a string of threedonkeys to the rear, and at intervals he was accosted by wounded orfevered soldiers, from whom he defended his animals with ape-likecries and mad gesticulation. After much chattering they usuallysubsided gloomily, and allowed him to go with his sleek littlebeasts unburdened. Finally he encountered a soldier who walkedslowly with the assistance of a staff. His head was bound with awide bandage, grimey from blood and mud. He made application to thepeasant, and immediately they were involved in a hideous Levantinediscussion. The peasant whined and clamoured, sometimes spittinglike a kitten. The wounded soldier jawed on thunderously, his greathands stretched in claw-like graspings over the peasant's head.Once he raised his staff and made threat with it. Then suddenly therow was at an end. The other sick men saw their comrade mount theleading donkey and at once begin to drum with his heels. Noneattempted to gain the backs of the remaining animals. They gazedafter them dully. Finally they saw the caravan outlined for amoment against the sky. The soldier was still waving his armspassionately, having it out with the peasant.
Peza was alive with despair for these men who looked at him withsuch doleful, quiet eyes. "Ah, my God!" he cried to the lieutenant,"these poor souls! These poor souls!"
The officer faced about angrily. "If you are coming with methere is no time for this." Peza obeyed instantly and with a suddenmeekness. In the moment some portion of egotism left him, and hemodestly wondered if the universe took cognizance of him to animportant degree. This theatre for slaughter, built by theinscrutable needs of the earth, was an enormous affair, and hereflected that the accidental destruction of an individual, Peza byname, would perhaps be nothing at all.
With the lieutenant he was soon walking along behind a series oflittle crescent-shape trenches, in which were soldiers, tranquillyinterested, gossiping with the hum of a tea-party. Although thesemen were not at this time under fire, he concluded that they werefabulously brave. Else they would not be so comfortable, so at homein their sticky brown trenches. They were certain to be heavilyattacked before the day was old. The universities had not taughthim to understand this attitude.
At the passing of the young man in very nice tweed, with his newleggings, his new white helmet, his new field-glass case, his newrevolver holster, the soiled soldiers turned with the samecuriosity which a being in strange garb meets at the corners ofstreets. He might as well have been promenading a populous avenue.The soldiers volubly discussed his identity.
To Peza there was something awful in the absolute familiarity ofeach tone, expression, gesture. These men, menaced with battle,displayed the curiosity of the café. Then, on the verge of hisgreat encounter toward death, he found himself extremelyembarrassed, composing his face with difficulty, wondering what todo with his hands, like a gawk at a levée.
He felt ridiculous, and also he felt awed, aghast, at these menwho could turn their faces from the ominous front and debate hisclothes, his business. There was an element which was new born intohis theory of war. He was not averse to the brisk pace at which thelieutenant moved along the line.
The roar of fighting was always in Peza's ears. It came fromsome short hills ahead and to the left. The road curved suddenlyand entered a wood. The trees stretched their luxuriant andgraceful branches over grassy slopes. A breeze made all thisverdure gently rustle and speak in long silken sighs. Absorbed inlistening to the hurricane racket from the front, he stillremembered that these trees were growing, the grass-blades wereextending according to their process. He inhaled a deep breath ofmoisture and fragrance from the grove, a wet odour which expressedall the opulent fecundity of unmoved nature, marching on with hermillion plans for multiple life, multiple death.
Further on, they came to a place where the Turkish shells werelanding. There was a long hurtling sound in the air, and then onehad sight of a shell. To Peza it was of the conical missiles whichfriendly officers had displayed to him on board warships. Curiouslyenough, too, this first shell smacked of the foundry, of men withsmudged faces, of the blare of furnace fires. It brought machineryimmediately into his mind. He thought that if he was killed thereat that time it would be as romantic, to the old standards, asdeath by a bit of falling iron in a factory.
II
A child was playing on a mountain and disregarding a battle thatwas waging on the plain. Behind him was the little cobbled hut ofhis fled parents. It was now occupied by a pearl-coloured cow thatstared out from the darkness thoughtful and tender-eyed. The childran to and fro, fumbling with sticks and making great machinationswith pebbles. By a striking exercise of artistic license the stickswere ponies, cows, and dogs, and the pebbles were sheep. He wasmanaging large agricultural and herding affairs. He was too intenton them to pay much heed to the fight four miles away, which atthat distance resembled in sound the beating of surf upon rocks.However, there were occasions when some louder outbreak of thatthunder stirred him from his serious occupation, and he turned thena questioning eye upon the battle, a small stick poised in hishand, interrupted in the act of sending his dog after his sheep.His tranquillity in regard to the death on the plain was asinvincible as that of the mountain on which he stood.
It was evident that fear had swept the parents away from theirhome in a manner that could make them forget this child, thefirst-born. Nevertheless, the hut was clean bare. The cow hadcommitted no impropriety in billeting herself at the domicile ofher masters. This smoke-coloured and odorous interior containednothing as large as a humming-bird. Terror had operated on theserunaway people in its sinister fashion, elevating details toenormous heights, causing a man to remember a button while heforgot a coat, overpowering every one with recollections of abroken coffee-cup, deluging them with fears for the safety of anold pipe, and causing them to forget their first-born. Meanwhilethe child played soberly with his trinkets.
He was solitary; engrossed in his own pursuits, it was seldomthat he lifted his head to inquire of the world why it made so muchnoise. The stick in his hand was much larger to him than was anarmy corps of the distance. It was too childish for the mind of thechild. He was dealing with sticks.
The battle lines writhed at times in the agony of a sea-creatureon the sands. These tentacles flung and waved in a supremeexcitement of pain, and the struggles of the great outlined bodybrought it nearer and nearer to the child. Once he looked at theplain and saw some men running wildly across a field. He had seenpeople chasing obdurate beasts in such fashion, and it struck himimmediately that it was a manly thing which he would incorporate inhis game. Consequently he raced furiously at his stone sheep,flourishing a cudgel, crying the shepherd calls. He pausedfrequently to get a cue of manner from the soldiers fighting on theplain. He reproduced, to a degree, any movements which he accountedrational to his theory of sheep-herding, the business of men, thetraditional and exalted living of his father.
III
It was as if Peza was a corpse walking on the bottom of the sea,and finding there fields of grain, groves, weeds, the faces of men,voices. War, a strange employment of the race, presented to him ascene crowded with familiar objects which wore the livery of theircommonness, placidly, undauntedly. He was smitten with keenastonishment; a spread of green grass lit with the flames ofpoppies was too old for the company of this new ogre. If he hadbeen devoting the full lens of his mind to this phase, he wouldhave known he was amazed that the trees, the flowers, the grass,all tender and peaceful nature had not taken to heels at once uponthe outbreak of battle. He venerated the immovable poppies.
The road seemed to lead into the apex of an angle formed by thetwo defensive lines of the Greeks. There was a straggle of woundedmen and of gunless and jaded men. These latter did not seem to befrightened. They remained very cool, walking with unhurried stepsand busy in gossip. Peza tried to define them. Perhaps during thefight they had reached the limit of their mental storage, theircapacity for excitement, for tragedy, and had then simply comeaway. Peza remembered his visit to a certain place of pictures,where he had found himself amid heavenly skies and diabolicmidnights—the sunshine beating red upon desert sands, nudebodies flung to the shore in the green moon-glow, ghastly andstarving men clawing at a wall in darkness, a girl at her bath withscreened rays falling upon her pearly shoulders, a dance, afuneral, a review, an execution, all the strength of argus-eyedart: and he had whirled and whirled amid this universe with criesof woe and joy, sin and beauty piercing his ears until he had beenobliged to simply come away. He remembered that as he had emergedhe had lit a cigarette with unction and advanced promptly to acafé. A great hollow quiet seemed to be upon the earth.
This was a different case, but in his thoughts he conceded thesame causes to many of these gunless wanderers. They too may havedreamed at lightning speed until the capacity for it wasoverwhelmed. As he watched them, he again saw himself walkingtoward the café, puffing upon his cigarette. As if to reinforce histheory, a soldier stopped him with an eager but polite inquiry fora match. He watched the man light his little roll of tobacco andpaper and begin to smoke ravenously.
Peza no longer was torn with sorrow at the sight of wounded men.Evidently he found that pity had a numerical limit, and when thiswas passed the emotion became another thing. Now, as he viewedthem, he merely felt himself very lucky, and beseeched thecontinuance of his superior fortune. At the passing of theseslouched and stained figures he now heard a reiteration of warning.A part of himself was appealing through the medium of these grimshapes. It was plucking at his sleeve and pointing, telling him tobeware; and so it had come to pass that he cared for the implacablemisery of these soldiers only as he would have cared for the harmsof broken dolls. His whole vision was focussed upon his ownchance.
The lieutenant suddenly halted. "Look," he said. "I find that myduty is in another direction. I must go another way. But if youwish to fight you have only to go forward, and any officer of thefighting line will give you opportunity." He raised his capceremoniously; Peza raised his new white helmet. The stranger tobattles uttered thanks to his chaperon, the one who had presentedhim. They bowed punctiliously, staring at each other with civileyes.
The lieutenant moved quietly away through a field. In an instantit flashed upon Peza's mind that this desertion was perfidious. Hehad been subjected to a criminal discourtesy. The officer hadfetched him into the middle of the thing, and then left him towander helplessly toward death. At one time he was upon the pointof shouting at the officer.
In the vale there was an effect as if one was then beneath thebattle. It was going on above somewhere. Alone, unguided, Peza feltlike a man groping in a cellar. He reflected too that one shouldalways see the beginning of a fight. It was too difficult to thusapproach it when the affair was in full swing. The trees hid allmovements of troops from him, and he thought he might be walkingout to the very spot which chance had provided for the reception ofa fool. He asked eager questions of passing soldiers. Some paid noheed to him; others shook their heads mournfully. They knew nothingsave that war was hard work. If they talked at all it was intestimony of having fought well, savagely. They did not know if thearmy was going to advance, hold its ground, or retreat; they wereweary.
A long pointed shell flashed through the air and struck near thebase of a tree, with a fierce upheaval, compounded of earth andflames. Looking back, Peza could see the shattered tree quiveringfrom head to foot. Its whole being underwent a convulsive tremorwhich was an exhibition of pain, and, furthermore, deep amazement.As he advanced through the vale, the shells continued to hiss andhurtle in long low flights, and the bullets purred in the air. Themissiles were flying into the breast of an astounded nature. Thelandscape, bewildered, agonized, was suffering a rain of infamousshots, and Peza imagined a million eyes gazing at him with the gazeof startled antelopes.
There was a resolute crashing of musketry from the tall hill onthe left, and from directly in front there was a mingled din ofartillery and musketry firing. Peza felt that his pride was playinga great trick in forcing him forward in this manner underconditions of strangeness, isolation, and ignorance. But herecalled the manner of the lieutenant, the smile on the hill-topamong the flying peasants. Peza blushed and pulled the peak of hishelmet down on his forehead. He strode onward firmly. Neverthelesshe hated the lieutenant, and he resolved that on some futureoccasion he would take much trouble to arrange a stinging socialrevenge upon that grinning jackanapes. It did not occur to himuntil later that he was now going to battle mainly because at aprevious time a certain man had smiled.
IV
The road curved round the base of a little hill, and on thishill a battery of mountain guns was leisurely shelling somethingunseen. In the lee of the height the mules, contented under theirheavy saddles, were quietly browsing the long grass. Peza ascendedthe hill by a slanting path. He felt his heart beat swiftly; onceat the top of the hill he would be obliged to look this phenomenonin the face. He hurried, with a mysterious idea of preventing bythis strategy the battle from making his appearance a signal forsome tremendous renewal. This vague thought seemed logical at thetime. Certainly this living thing had knowledge of his coming. Heendowed it with the intelligence of a barbaric deity. And so hehurried; he wished to surprise war, this terrible emperor, when itwas growling on its throne. The ferocious and horrible sovereignwas not to be allowed to make the arrival a pretext for some fit ofsmoky rage and blood. In this half-lull, Peza had distinctly thesense of stealing upon the battle unawares.
The soldiers watching the mules did not seem to be impressed byanything august. Two of them sat side by side and talkedcomfortably; another lay flat upon his back staring dreamily at thesky; another cursed a mule for certain refractions. Despite theiruniforms, their bandoliers and rifles, they were dwelling in thepeace of hostlers. However, the long shells were whooping from timeto time over the brow of the hill, and swirling in almost straightlines toward the vale of trees, flowers, and grass. Peza, hearingand seeing the shells, and seeing the pensive guardians of themules, felt reassured. They were accepting the condition of war aseasily as an old sailor accepts the chair behind the counter of atobacco-shop. Or, it was merely that the farm-boy had gone to sea,and he had adjusted himself to the circumstances immediately, andwith only the usual first misadventures in conduct. Peza was proudand ashamed that he was not of them, these stupid peasants, who,throughout the world, hold potentates on their thrones, makestatesmen illustrious, provide generals with lasting victories, allwith ignorance, indifference, or half-witted hatred, moving theworld with the strength of their arms and getting their headsknocked together in the name of God, the king, or the StockExchange; immortal, dreaming, hopeless asses who surrender theirreason to the care of a shining puppet, and persuade some toy tocarry their lives in his purse. Peza mentally abased himself beforethem, and wished to stir them with furious kicks.
As his eyes ranged above the rim of the plateau, he saw a groupof artillery officers talking busily. They turned at once andregarded his ascent. A moment later a row of infantry soldiers in atrench beyond the little guns all faced him. Peza bowed to theofficers. He understood at the time that he had made a good andcool bow, and he wondered at it, for his breath was coming ingasps, he was stifling from sheer excitement. He felt like a tipsyman trying to conceal his muscular uncertainty from the people inthe street. But the officers did not display any knowledge. Theybowed. Behind them Peza saw the plain, glittering green, with threelines of black marked upon it heavily. The front of the first ofthese lines was frothy with smoke. To the left of this hill was acraggy mountain, from which came a continual dull rattle ofmusketry. Its summit was ringed with the white smoke. The blacklines on the plain slowly moved. The shells that came from therepassed overhead with the sound of great birds frantically flappingtheir wings. Peza thought of the first sight of the sea during astorm. He seemed to feel against his face the wind that races overthe tops of cold and tumultuous billows.
He heard a voice afar off—"Sir, what would you?" Heturned, and saw the dapper captain of the battery standing besidehim. Only a moment had elapsed. "Pardon me, sir," said Peza, bowingagain. The officer was evidently reserving his bows; he scanned thenew-comer attentively. "Are you a correspondent?" he asked. Pezaproduced a card. "Yes, I came as a correspondent," he replied, "butnow, sir, I have other thoughts. I wish to help. You see? I wish tohelp."
"What do you mean?" said the captain. "Are you a Greek? Do youwish to fight?"
"Yes, I am a Greek. I wish to fight." Peza's voice surprised himby coming from his lips in even and deliberate tones. He thoughtwith gratification that he was behaving rather well. Another shelltravelling from some unknown point on the plain whirled close andfuriously in the air, pursuing an apparently horizontal course asif it were never going to touch the earth. The dark shape swishedacross the sky.
"Ah," cried the captain, now smiling, "I am not sure that wewill be able to accommodate you with a fierce affair here just atthis time, but—" He walked gaily to and fro behind the gunswith Peza, pointing out to him the lines of the Greeks, anddescribing his opinion of the general plan of defence. He wore theair of an amiable host. Other officers questioned Peza in regard tothe politics of the war. The king, the ministry, Germany, England,Russia, all these huge words were continually upon their tongues."And the people in Athens? Were they—" Amid this vivaciousbabble Peza, seated upon an ammunition box, kept his glance high,watching the appearance of shell after shell. These officers werelike men who had been lost for days in the forest. They werethirsty for any scrap of news. Nevertheless, one of them wouldoccasionally dispute their informant courteously. What would Serviahave to say to that? No, no, France and Russia could never allowit. Peza was elated. The shells killed no one; war was not so bad.He was simply having coffee in the smoking-room of some embassywhere reverberate the names of nations.
A rumour had passed along the motley line of privates in thetrench. The new arrival with the clean white helmet was a famousEnglish cavalry officer come to assist the army with his counsel.They stared at the figure of him, surrounded by officers. Peza,gaining sense of the glances and whispers, felt that his coming wasan event.
Later, he resolved that he could with temerity do somethingfiner. He contemplated the mountain where the Greek infantry wasengaged, and announced leisurely to the captain of the battery thathe thought presently of going in that direction and getting intothe fight. He re-affirmed the sentiments of a patriot. The captainseemed surprised. "Oh, there will be fighting here at this knoll ina few minutes," he said orientally. "That will be sufficient? Youhad better stay with us. Besides, I have been ordered to resumefire." The officers all tried to dissuade him from departing. Itwas really not worth the trouble. The battery would begin againdirectly. Then it would be amusing for him.
Peza felt that he was wandering with his protestations of highpatriotism through a desert of sensible men. These officers gave noheed to his exalted declarations. They seemed too jaded. They werefighting the men who were fighting them. Palaver of the particularkind had subsided before their intense pre-occupation in war as acraft. Moreover, many men had talked in that manner and onlytalked.
Peza believed at first that they were treating him delicately.They were considerate of his inexperience. War had turned out to besuch a gentle business that Peza concluded he could scorn thisidea. He bade them a heroic farewell despite their objections.
However, when he reflected upon their ways afterward, he sawdimly that they were actuated principally by some universalchildish desire for a spectator of their fine things. They weregoing into action, and they wished to be seen at war, precise andfearless.
V
Climbing slowly to the high infantry position, Peza was amazedto meet a soldier whose jaw had been half shot away, and who wasbeing helped down the sheep track by two tearful comrades. Theman's breast was drenched with blood, and from a cloth which heheld to the wound drops were splashing wildly upon the stones ofthe path. He gazed at Peza for a moment. It was a mystic gaze,which Peza withstood with difficulty. He was exchanging looks witha spectre; all aspect of the man was somehow gone from this victim.As Peza went on, one of the unwounded soldiers loudly shouted tohim to return and assist in this tragic march. But even Peza'sfingers revolted; he was afraid of the spectre; he would not havedared to touch it. He was surely craven in the movement of refusalhe made to them. He scrambled hastily on up the path. He wasrunning away.
At the top of the hill he came immediately upon a part of theline that was in action. Another battery of mountain guns was herefiring at the streaks of black on the plain. There were trenchesfilled with men lining parts of the crest, and near the base wereother trenches, all crashing away mightily. The plain stretched asfar as the eye can see, and from where silver mist ended thisemerald ocean of grass, a great ridge of snow-topped mountainspoised against a fleckless blue sky. Two knolls, green and yellowwith grain, sat on the prairie confronting the dark hills of theGreek position. Between them were the lines of the enemy. A row oftrees, a village, a stretch of road, showed faintly on this greatcanvas, this tremendous picture, but men, the Turkish battalions,were emphasized startlingly upon it. The ranks of troops betweenthe knolls and the Greek position were as black as ink.
The first line of course was muffled in smoke, but at the rearof it battalions crawled up and to and fro plainer than beetles ona plate. Peza had never understood that masses of men were sodeclarative, so unmistakable, as if nature makes every arrangementto give information of the coming and the presence of destruction,the end, oblivion. The firing was full, complete, a roar ofcataracts, and this pealing of connected volleys was adjusted tothe grandeur of the far-off range of snowy mountains. Peza,breathless, pale, felt that he had been set upon a pillar and wassurveying mankind, the world. In the meantime dust had got in hiseye. He took his handkerchief and mechanically administered toit.
An officer with a double stripe of purple on his trousers pacedin the rear of the battery of howitzers. He waved a little cane.Sometimes he paused in his promenade to study the field through hisglasses. "A fine scene, sir," he cried airily, upon the approach ofPeza. It was like a blow in the chest to the wide-eyed volunteer.It revealed to him a point of view. "Yes, sir, it is a fine scene,"he answered. They spoke in French. "I am happy to be able toentertain monsieur with a little practice," continued the officer."I am firing upon that mass of troops you see there a little to theright. They are probably forming for another attack." Peza smiled;here again appeared manners, manners erect by the side ofdeath.
The right-flank gun of the battery thundered; there was a belchof fire and smoke; the shell flung swiftly and afar was known onlyto the ear in which rang a broadening hooting wake of sound. Thehowitzer had thrown itself backward convulsively, and lay with itswheels moving in the air as a squad of men rushed toward it. Andlater, it seemed as if each little gun had made the supreme effortof its being in each particular shot. They roared with voices fartoo loud, and the thunderous effort caused a gun to bound as in adying convulsion. And then occasionally one was hurled with wheelsin air. These shuddering howitzers presented an appearance of somany cowards always longing to bolt to the rear, but beingimplacably held to their business by this throng of soldiers whoran in squads to drag them up again to their obligation. The gunswere herded and cajoled and bullied interminably. One by one, inrelentless program, they were dragged forward to contribute aprofound vibration of steel and wood, a flash and a roar, to theimportant happiness of man.
The adjacent infantry celebrated a good shot with smiles and anoutburst of gleeful talk.
"Look, sir," cried an officer to Peza. Thin smoke was driftinglazily before Peza, and dodging impatiently he brought his eyes tobear upon that part of the plain indicated by the officer's finger.The enemy's infantry was advancing to attack. From the black lineshad come forth an inky mass which was shaped much like a humantongue. It advanced slowly, casually, without apparent spirit, butwith an insolent confidence that was like a proclamation of theinevitable.
The impetuous part was all played by the defensive side.Officers called, men plucked each other by the sleeve; there wereshouts, motions, all eyes were turned upon the inky mass which wasflowing toward the base of the hills, heavily, languorously, asoily and thick as one of the streams that ooze through a swamp.
Peza was chattering a question at every one. In the way, pushedaside, or in the way again, he continued to repeat it. "Can theytake the position? Can they take the position? Can they take theposition?" He was apparently addressing an assemblage of deaf men.Every eye was busy watching every hand. The soldiers did not evenseem to see the interesting stranger in the white helmet who wascrying out so feverishly.
Finally, however, the hurried captain of the battery espied himand heeded his question. "No, sir! no, sir! It is impossible," heshouted angrily. His manner seemed to denote that if he hadsufficient time he would have completely insulted Peza. The latterswallowed the crumb of news without regard to the coating of scorn,and, waving his hand in adieu, he began to run along the crest ofthe hill toward the part of the Greek line against which the attackwas directed.
VI
Peza, as he ran along the crest of the mountain, believed thathis action was receiving the wrathful attention of the hosts of thefoe. To him then it was incredible foolhardiness thus to call tohimself the stares of thousands of hateful eyes. He was like a ladinduced by playmates to commit some indiscretion in a cathedral. Hewas abashed; perhaps he even blushed as he ran. It seemed to himthat the whole solemn ceremony of war had paused during thiscommission. So he scrambled wildly over the rocks in his haste toend the embarrassing ordeal. When he came among the crowningrifle-pits filled with eager soldiers he wanted to yell with joy.None noticed him save a young officer of infantry, whosaid—"Sir, what do you want?" It was obvious that people haddevoted some attention to their own affairs.
Peza asserted, in Greek, that he wished above everything tobattle for the fatherland. The officer nodded; with a smile hepointed to some dead men covered with blankets, from which werethrust upturned dusty shoes.
"Yes, I know, I know," cried Peza. He thought the officer waspoetically alluding to the danger.
"No," said the officer at once. "I mean cartridges—abandolier. Take a bandolier from one of them."
Peza went cautiously toward a body. He moved a hand toward thecorner of a blanket. There he hesitated, stuck, as if his arm hadturned to plaster. Hearing a rustle behind him he spun quickly.Three soldiers of the close rank in the trench were regarding him.The officer came again and tapped him on the shoulder. "Have youany tobacco?" Peza looked at him in bewilderment. His hand wasstill extended toward the blanket which covered the dead soldier."Yes," he said, "I have some tobacco." He gave the officer hispouch. As if in compensation, the other directed a soldier to stripthe bandolier from the corpse. Peza, having crossed the longcartridge belt on his breast, felt that the dead man had flung histwo arms around him.
A soldier with a polite nod and smile gave Peza a rifle, a relicof another dead man. Thus, he felt, besides the clutch of a corpseabout his neck, that the rifle was as inhumanly horrible as a snakethat lives in a tomb. He heard at his ear something that was ineffect like the voices of those two dead men, their low voicesspeaking to him of bloody death, mutilation. The bandolier grippedhim tighter; he wished to raise his hands to his throat like a manwho is choking. The rifle was clammy; upon his palms he felt themovement of the sluggish currents of a serpent's life; it wascrawling and frightful.
All about him were these peasants, with their interestedcountenances, gibbering of the fight. From time to time a soldiercried out in semi-humorous lamentations descriptive of his thirst.One bearded man sat munching a great bit of hard bread. Fat,greasy, squat, he was like an idol made of tallow. Peza felt dimlythat there was a distinction between this man and a young studentwho could write sonnets and play the piano quite well. This oldblockhead was coolly gnawing at the bread, while he, Peza, wasbeing throttled by a dead man's arms.
He looked behind him, and saw that a head by some chance hadbeen uncovered from its blanket. Two liquid-like eyes were staringinto his face. The head was turned a little sideways as if to getbetter opportunity for the scrutiny. Peza could feel himselfblanch; he was being drawn and drawn by these dead men slowly,firmly down as to some mystic chamber under the earth where theycould walk, dreadful figures, swollen and blood-marked. He wasbidden; they had commanded him; he was going, going, going.
When the man in the new white helmet bolted for the rear, manyof the soldiers in the trench thought that he had been struck, butthose who had been nearest to him knew better. Otherwise they wouldhave heard the silken sliding tender noise of the bullet and thethud of its impact. They bawled after him curses, and alsooutbursts of self-congratulation and vanity. Despite the prominenceof the cowardly part, they were enabled to see in this exhibition afine comment upon their own fortitude. The other soldiers thoughtthat Peza had been wounded somewhere in the neck, because as he ranhe was tearing madly at the bandolier, the dead man's arms. Thesoldier with the bread paused in his eating and cynically remarkedupon the speed of the runaway.
An officer's voice was suddenly heard calling out thecalculation of the distance to the enemy, the readjustment of thesights. There was a stirring rattle along the line. The men turnedtheir eyes to the front. Other trenches beneath them to the rightwere already heavily in action. The smoke was lifting toward theblue sky. The soldier with the bread placed it carefully on a bitof paper beside him as he turned to kneel in the trench.
VII
In the late afternoon, the child ceased his play on the mountainwith his flocks and his dogs. Part of the battle had whirled verynear to the base of his hill, and the noise was great. Sometimes hecould see fantastic smoky shapes which resembled the curiousfigures in foam which one sees on the slant of a rough sea. Theplain indeed was etched in white circles and whirligigs like theslope of a colossal wave. The child took seat on a stone andcontemplated the fight. He was beginning to be astonished; he hadnever before seen cattle herded with such uproar. Lines of flameflashed out here and there. It was mystery.
Finally, without any preliminary indication, he began to weep.If the men struggling on the plain had had time and greater vision,they could have seen this strange tiny figure seated on a boulder,surveying them while the tears streamed. It was as simple as somepowerful symbol.
As the magic clear light of day amid the mountains dimmed thedistances, and the plain shone as a pallid blue cloth marked by thered threads of the firing, the child arose and moved off to theunwelcoming door of his home. He called softly for his mother, andcomplained of his hunger in the familiar formula. Thepearl-coloured cow, grinding her jaws thoughtfully, stared at himwith her large eyes. The peaceful gloom of evening was slowlydraping the hills.
The child heard a rattle of loose stones on the hillside, andfacing the sound, saw a moment later a man drag himself up to thecrest of the hill and fall panting. Forgetting his mother and hishunger, filled with calm interest, the child walked forward andstood over the heaving form. His eyes too were now large andinscrutably wise and sad like those of the animal in the house.
After a silence he spoke inquiringly. "Are you a man?"
Peza rolled over quickly and gazed up into the fearless cherubiccountenance. He did not attempt to reply. He breathed as if lifewas about to leave his body. He was covered with dust; his face hadbeen cut in some way, and his cheek was ribboned with blood. Allthe spick of his former appearance had vanished in a generaldishevelment, in which he resembled a creature that had been flungto and fro, up and down, by cliffs and prairies during anearthquake. He rolled his eye glassily at the child.
They remained thus until the child repeated his words. "Are youa man?"
Peza gasped in the manner of a fish. Palsied, windless, andabject, he confronted the primitive courage, the sovereign child,the brother of the mountains, the sky and the sea, and he knew thatthe definition of his misery could be written on a grass-blade.
(From the Press, New York.)
It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down,causing the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue andyellow in the rays of the innumerable lights. A youth was trudgingslowly, without enthusiasm, with his hands buried deep in histrouser's pockets, towards the down-town places where beds can behired for coppers. He was clothed in an aged and tattered suit, andhis derby was a marvel of dust-covered crown and torn rim. He wasgoing forth to eat as the wanderer may eat, and sleep as thehomeless sleep. By the time he had reached City Hall Park he was socompletely plastered with yells of "bum" and "hobo," and withvarious unholy epithets that small boys had applied to him atintervals, that he was in a state of the most profound dejection.The sifting rain saturated the old velvet collar of his overcoat,and as the wet cloth pressed against his neck, he felt that thereno longer could be pleasure in life. He looked about him searchingfor an outcast of highest degree that they too might sharemiseries, but the lights threw a quivering glare over rows andcircles of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patchesof wet sod behind them. It seemed that their usual freights hadfled on this night to better things. There were only squads ofwell-dressed Brooklyn people who swarmed towards the bridge.
The young man loitered about for a time and then went shufflingoff down Park Row. In the sudden descent in style of the dress ofthe crowd he felt relief, and as if he were at last in his owncountry. He began to see tatters that matched his tatters. InChatham Square there were aimless men strewn in front of saloonsand lodging-houses, standing sadly, patiently, reminding onevaguely of the attitudes of chickens in a storm. He aligned himselfwith these men, and turned slowly to occupy himself with theflowing life of the great street.
Through the mists of the cold and storming night, the cable carswent in silent procession, great affairs shining with red andbrass, moving with formidable power, calm and irresistible,dangerful and gloomy, breaking silence only by the loud fierce cryof the gong. Two rivers of people swarmed along the side walks,spattered with black mud, which made each shoe leave a scar-likeimpression. Overhead elevated trains with a shrill grinding of thewheels stopped at the station, which upon its leg-like pillarsseemed to resemble some monstrous kind of crab squatting over thestreet. The quick fat puffings of the engines could be heard. Downan alley there were sombre curtains of purple and black, on whichstreet lamps dully glittered like embroidered flowers.
A saloon stood with a voracious air on a corner. A sign leaningagainst the front of the door-post announced "Free hot soupto-night!" The swing doors, snapping to and fro like ravenous lips,made gratified smacks as the saloon gorged itself with plump men,eating with astounding and endless appetite, smiling in someindescribable manner as the men came from all directions likesacrifices to a heathenish superstition.
Caught by the delectable sign the young man allowed himself tobe swallowed. A bar-tender placed a schooner of dark and portentousbeer on the bar. Its monumental form up-reared until the frotha-top was above the crown of the young man's brown derby.
"Soup over there, gents," said the bar-tender affably. A littleyellow man in rags and the youth grasped their schooners and wentwith speed toward a lunch counter, where a man with oily butimposing whiskers ladled genially from a kettle until he hadfurnished his two mendicants with a soup that was steaming hot, andin which there were little floating suggestions of chicken. Theyoung man, sipping his broth, felt the cordiality expressed by thewarmth of the mixture, and he beamed at the man with oily butimposing whiskers, who was presiding like a priest behind an altar."Have some more, gents?" he inquired of the two sorry figuresbefore him. The little yellow man accepted with a swift gesture,but the youth shook his head and went out, following a man whosewondrous seediness promised that he would have a knowledge of cheaplodging-houses.
On the side-walk he accosted the seedy man. "Say, do you know acheap place to sleep?"
The other hesitated for a time gazing sideways. Finally henodded in the direction of the street, "I sleep up there," he said,"when I've got the price."
"How much?"
"Ten cents."
The young man shook his head dolefully. "That's too rich forme."
At that moment there approached the two a reeling man in strangegarments. His head was a fuddle of bushy hair and whiskers, fromwhich his eyes peered with a guilty slant. In a close scrutiny itwas possible to distinguish the cruel lines of a mouth which lookedas if its lips had just closed with satisfaction over some tenderand piteous morsel. He appeared like an assassin steeped in crimesperformed awkwardly.
But at this time his voice was tuned to the coaxing key of anaffectionate puppy. He looked at the men with wheedling eyes, andbegan to sing a little melody for charity.
"Say, gents, can't yeh give a poor feller a couple of cents t'git a bed. I got five, and I gits anudder two I gits me a bed. Now,on th' square, gents, can't yeh jest gimme two cents t' git a bed?Now, yeh know how a respecter'ble gentlem'n feels when he's down onhis luck, an' I—"
The seedy man, staring with imperturbable countenance at a trainwhich clattered overhead, interrupted in an expressionlessvoice—"Ah, go t' h—!"
But the youth spoke to the prayerful assassin in tones ofastonishment and inquiry. "Say, you must be crazy! Why don't yehstrike somebody that looks as if they had money?"
The assassin, tottering about on his uncertain legs, and atintervals brushing imaginary obstacles from before his nose,entered into a long explanation of the psychology of the situation.It was so profound that it was unintelligible.
When he had exhausted the subject, the young man said tohim—
"Let's see th' five cents."
The assassin wore an expression of drunken woe at this sentence,filled with suspicion of him. With a deeply pained air he began tofumble in his clothing, his red hands trembling. Presently heannounced in a voice of bitter grief, as if he had beenbetrayed—"There's on'y four."
"Four," said the young man thoughtfully. "Well, look-a-here, I'ma stranger here, an' if ye'll steer me to your cheap joint I'llfind the other three."
The assassin's countenance became instantly radiant with joy.His whiskers quivered with the wealth of his alleged emotions. Heseized the young man's hand in a transport of delight andfriendliness.
"B' Gawd," he cried, "if ye'll do that, b' Gawd, I'd say yeh wasa damned good fellow, I would, an' I'd remember yeh all m' life, Iwould, b' Gawd, an' if I ever got a chance I'd return thecompliment"—he spoke with drunken dignity,—"b' Gawd,I'd treat yeh white, I would, an' I'd allus remember yeh."
The young man drew back, looking at the assassin coldly. "Oh,that's all right," he said. "You show me th' joint—that's allyou've got t' do."
The assassin, gesticulating gratitude, led the young man along adark street. Finally he stopped before a little dusty door. Heraised his hand impressively. "Look-a-here," he said, and there wasa thrill of deep and ancient wisdom upon his face, "I've broughtyeh here, an' that's my part, ain't it? If th' place don't suityeh, yeh needn't git mad at me, need yeh? There won't be no badfeelin', will there?"
"No," said the young man.
The assassin waved his arm tragically, and led the march up thesteep stairway. On the way the young man furnished the assassinwith three pennies. At the top a man with benevolent spectacleslooked at them through a hole in a board. He collected their money,wrote some names on a register, and speedily was leading the twomen along a gloom-shrouded corridor.
Shortly after the beginning of this journey the young man felthis liver turn white, for from the dark and secret places of thebuilding there suddenly came to his nostrils strange andunspeakable odours, that assailed him like malignant diseases withwings. They seemed to be from human bodies closely packed in dens;the exhalations from a hundred pairs of reeking lips; the fumesfrom a thousand bygone debauches; the expression of a thousandpresent miseries.
A man, naked save for a little snuff-coloured undershirt, wasparading sleepily along the corridor. He rubbed his eyes, and,giving vent to a prodigious yawn, demanded to be told the time.
"Half-past one."
The man yawned again. He opened a door, and for a moment hisform was outlined against a black, opaque interior. To this doorcame the three men, and as it was again opened the unholy odoursrushed out like fiends, so that the young man was obliged tostruggle as against an overpowering wind.
It was some time before the youth's eyes were good in theintense gloom within, but the man with benevolent spectacles ledhim skilfully, pausing but a moment to deposit the limp assassinupon a cot. He took the youth to a cot that lay tranquilly by thewindow, and showing him a tall locker for clothes that stood nearthe head with the ominous air of a tombstone, left him.
The youth sat on his cot and peered about him. There was agas-jet in a distant part of the room, that burned a smallflickering orange-hued flame. It caused vast masses of tumbledshadows in all parts of the place, save where, immediately aboutit, there was a little grey haze. As the young man's eyes becameused to the darkness, he could see upon the cots that thicklylittered the floor the forms of men sprawled out, lying indeath-like silence, or heaving and snoring with tremendous effort,like stabbed fish.
The youth locked his derby and his shoes in the mummy case nearhim, and then lay down with an old and familiar coat around hisshoulders. A blanket he handed gingerly, drawing it over part ofthe coat. The cot was covered with leather, and as cold as meltingsnow. The youth was obliged to shiver for some time on this affair,which was like a slab. Presently, however, his chill gave himpeace, and during this period of leisure from it he turned his headto stare at his friend the assassin, whom he could dimly discernwhere he lay sprawled on a cot in the abandon of a man filled withdrink. He was snoring with incredible vigour. His wet hair andbeard dimly glistened, and his inflamed nose shone with subduedlustre like a red light in a fog.
Within reach of the youth's hand was one who lay with yellowbreast and shoulders bare to the cold drafts. One arm hung over theside of the cot, and the fingers lay full length upon the wetcement floor of the room. Beneath the inky brows could be seen theeyes of the man exposed by the partly opened lids. To the youth itseemed that he and this corpse-like being were exchanging aprolonged stare, and that the other threatened with his eyes. Hedrew back watching his neighbour from the shadows of his blanketedge. The man did not move once through the night, but lay in thisstillness as of death like a body stretched out expectant of thesurgeon's knife.
And all through the room could be seen the tawny hues of nakedflesh, limbs thrust into the darkness, projecting beyond the cots;upreared knees, arms hanging long and thin over the cot edges. Forthe most part they were statuesque, carven, dead. With the curiouslockers standing all about like tombstones, there was a strangeeffect of a graveyard where bodies were merely flung.
Yet occasionally could be seen limbs wildly tossing in fantasticnightmare gestures, accompanied by guttural cries, grunts, oaths.And there was one fellow off in a gloomy corner, who in his dreamswas oppressed by some frightful calamity, for of a sudden he beganto utter long wails that went almost like yells from a hound,echoing wailfully and weird through this chill place of tombstoneswhere men lay like the dead.
The sound in its high piercing beginnings, that dwindled tofinal melancholy moans, expressed a red and grim tragedy of theunfathomable possibilities of the man's dreams. But to the youththese were not merely the shrieks of a vision-pierced man: theywere an utterance of the meaning of the room and its occupants. Itwas to him the protest of the wretch who feels the touch of theimperturbable granite wheels, and who then cries with an impersonaleloquence, with a strength not from him, giving voice to the wailof a whole section, a class, a people. This, weaving into the youngman's brain, and mingling with his views of the vast and sombreshadows that, like mighty black fingers, curled around the nakedbodies, made the young man so that he did not sleep, but laycarving the biographies for these men from his meagre experience.At times the fellow in the corner howled in a writhing agony of hisimaginations.
Finally a long lance-point of grey light shot through the dustypanes of the window. Without, the young man could see roofsdrearily white in the dawning. The point of light yellowed and grewbrighter, until the golden rays of the morning sun came in bravelyand strong. They touched with radiant colour the form of a smallfat man, who snored in stuttering fashion. His round and shiny baldhead glowed suddenly with the valour of a decoration. He sat up,blinked at the sun, swore fretfully, and pulled his blanket overthe ornamental splendours of his head.
The youth contentedly watched this rout of the shadows beforethe bright spears of the sun, and presently he slumbered. When heawoke he heard the voice of the assassin raised in valiant curses.Putting up his head, he perceived his comrade seated on the side ofthe cot engaged in scratching his neck with long finger-nails thatrasped like files.
"Hully Jee, dis is a new breed. They've got can-openers on theirfeet." He continued in a violent tirade.
The young man hastily unlocked his closet and took out his shoesand hat. As he sat on the side of the cot lacing his shoes, heglanced about and saw that daylight had made the room comparativelycommon-place and uninteresting. The men, whose faces seemed stolid,serene or absent, were engaged in dressing, while a great crackleof bantering conversation arose.
A few were parading in unconcerned nakedness. Here and therewere men of brawn, whose skins shone clear and ruddy. They tooksplendid poses, standing massively like chiefs. When they haddressed in their ungainly garments there was an extraordinarychange. They then showed bumps and deficiencies of all kinds.
There were others who exhibited many deformities. Shoulders wereslanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way. And notableamong these latter men was the little fat man, who had refused toallow his head to be glorified. His pudgy form, builded like apear, bustled to and fro, while he swore in fish-wife fashion. Itappeared that some article of his apparel had vanished.
The young man attired speedily, and went to his friend theassassin. At first the latter looked dazed at the sight of theyouth. This face seemed to be appealing to him through the cloudwastes of his memory. He scratched his neck and reflected. At lasthe grinned, a broad smile gradually spreading until his countenancewas a round illumination. "Hello, Willie," he cried cheerily.
"Hello," said the young man. "Are yeh ready t' fly?"
"Sure." The assassin tied his shoe carefully with some twine andcame ambling.
When he reached the street the young man experienced no suddenrelief from unholy atmospheres. He had forgotten all about them,and had been breathing naturally, and with no sensation ofdiscomfort or distress.
He was thinking of these things as he walked along the street,when he was suddenly startled by feeling the assassin's hand,trembling with excitement, clutching his arm, and when the assassinspoke, his voice went into quavers from a supreme agitation.
"I'll be hully, bloomin' blowed if there wasn't a feller with anightshirt on up there in that joint."
The youth was bewildered for a moment, but presently he turnedto smile indulgently at the assassin's humour.
"Oh, you're a d—d liar," he merely said.
Whereupon the assassin began to gesture extravagantly, and takeoath by strange gods. He frantically placed himself at the mercy ofremarkable fates if his tale were not true.
"Yes, he did! I cross m'heart thousan' times!" he protested, andat the moment his eyes were large with amazement, his mouthwrinkled in unnatural glee.
"Yessir! A nightshirt! A hully white nightshirt!"
"You lie!"
"No, sir! I hope ter die b'fore I kin git anudder ball if therewasn't a jay wid a hully, bloomin' white nightshirt!"
His face was filled with the infinite wonder of it. "A hullywhite nightshirt," he continually repeated.
The young man saw the dark entrance to a basement restaurant.There was a sign which read "No mystery about our hash!" and therewere other age-stained and world-battered legends which told himthat the place was within his means. He stopped before it and spoketo the assassin. "I guess I'll git somethin' t' eat."
At this the assassin, for some reason, appeared to be quiteembarrassed. He gazed at the seductive front of the eating placefor a moment. Then he started slowly up the street. "Well,good-bye, Willie," he said bravely.
For an instant the youth studied the departing figure. Then hecalled out, "Hol' on a minnet." As they came together he spoke in acertain fierce way, as if he feared that the other would think himto be charitable. "Look-a-here, if yeh wanta git some breakfas'I'll lend yeh three cents t' do it with. But say, look-a-here,you've gota git out an' hustle. I ain't goin' t' support yeh, orI'll go broke b'fore night. I ain't no millionaire."
"I take me oath, Willie," said the assassin earnestly, "th' on'ything I really needs is a ball. Me t'roat feels like a fryin'-pan.But as I can't get a ball, why, th' next bes' thing is breakfast,an' if yeh do that for me, b' Gawd, I say yeh was th' whitest lad Iever see."
They spent a few moments in dexterous exchanges of phrases, inwhich they each protested that the other was, as the assassin hadoriginally said, "a respecter'ble gentlem'n." And they concludedwith mutual assurances that they were the souls of intelligence andvirtue. Then they went into the restaurant.
There was a long counter, dimly lighted from hidden sources. Twoor three men in soiled white aprons rushed here and there.
The youth bought a bowl of coffee for two cents and a roll forone cent. The assassin purchased the same. The bowls were webbedwith brown seams, and the tin spoons wore an air of having emergedfrom the first pyramid. Upon them were black moss-likeencrustations of age, and they were bent and scarred from theattacks of long-forgotten teeth. But over their repast thewanderers waxed warm and mellow. The assassin grew affable as thehot mixture went soothingly down his parched throat, and the youngman felt courage flow in his veins.
Memories began to throng in on the assassin, and he broughtforth long tales, intricate, incoherent, delivered with achattering swiftness as from an old woman. "—— greatjob out'n Orange. Boss keep yeh hustlin' though all time. I wasthere three days, and then I went an' ask 'im t' lend me a dollar.'G-g-go ter the devil,' he ses, an' I lose me job."
"South no good. Damn niggers work for twenty-five an' thirtycents a day. Run white man out. Good grub though. Easy livin'."
"Yas; useter work little in Toledo, raftin' logs. Make two orthree dollars er day in the spring. Lived high. Cold as ice thoughin the winter."
"I was raised in northern N'York. O-o-oh, yeh jest oughto livethere. No beer ner whisky though, way off in the woods. But all th'good hot grub yeh can eat. B' Gawd, I hung around there long as Icould till th' ol' man fired me. 'Git t' hell outa here, yehwuthless skunk, git t' hell outa here, an' go die,' he ses. 'You'rea hell of a father,' I ses, 'you are,' an' I quit 'im."
As they were passing from the dim eating place, they encounteredan old man who was trying to steal forth with a tiny package offood, but a tall man with an indomitable moustache stood dragonfashion, barring the way of escape. They heard the old man raise aplaintive protest. "Ah, you always want to know what I take out,and you never see that I usually bring a package in here from myplace of business."
As the wanderers trudged slowly along Park Row, the assassinbegan to expand and grow blithe. "B' Gawd, we've been livin' likekings," he said, smacking appreciative lips.
"Look out, or we'll have t' pay fer it t'night," said the youthwith gloomy warning.
But the assassin refused to turn his gaze toward the future. Hewent with a limping step, into which he injected a suggestion oflamblike gambols. His mouth was wreathed in a red grin.
In the City Hall Park the two wanderers sat down in the littlecircle of benches sanctified by traditions of their class. Theyhuddled in their old garments, slumbrously conscious of the marchof the hours which for them had no meaning.
The people of the street hurrying hither and thither made ablend of black figures changing yet frieze-like. They walked intheir good clothes as upon important missions, giving no gaze tothe two wanderers seated upon the benches. They expressed to theyoung man his infinite distance from all that he valued. Socialposition, comfort, the pleasures of living, were unconquerablekingdoms. He felt a sudden awe.
And in the background a multitude of buildings, of pitiless huesand sternly high, were to him emblematic of a nation forcing itsregal head into the clouds, throwing no downward glances; in thesublimity of its aspirations ignoring the wretches who may flounderat its feet. The roar of the city in his ear was to him theconfusion of strange tongues, babbling heedlessly; it was the clinkof coin, the voice of the city's hopes which were to him nohopes.
He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from under thelowered rim of his hat began to glance guiltily, wearing thecriminal expression that comes with certain convictions.
The blizzard began to swirl great clouds of snow along thestreets, sweeping it down from the roofs, and up from thepavements, until the faces of pedestrians tingled and burned asfrom a thousand needle-prickings. Those on the walks huddled theirnecks closely in the collars of their coats, and went alongstooping like a race of aged people. The drivers of vehicleshurried their horses furiously on their way. They were made morecruel by the exposure of their position, aloft on high seats. Thestreet cars, bound up town, went slowly, the horses slipping andstraining in the spongy brown mass that lay between the rails. Thedrivers, muffled to the eyes, stood erect, facing the wind, modelsof grim philosophy. Overhead trains rumbled and roared, and thedark structure of the elevated railroad, stretching over theavenue, dripped little streams and drops of water upon the mud andsnow beneath.
All the clatter of the street was softened by the masses thatlay upon the cobbles, until, even to one who looked from a window,it became important music, a melody of life made necessary to theear by the dreariness of the pitiless beat and sweep of the storm.Occasionally one could see black figures of men busily shovellingthe white drifts from the walks. The sounds from their labourcreated new recollections of rural experiences which every manmanages to have in a measure. Later, the immense windows of theshops became aglow with light, throwing great beams of orange andyellow upon the pavement. They were infinitely cheerful, yet in away they accentuated the force and discomfort of the storm, andgave a meaning to the pace of the people and the vehicles, scoresof pedestrians and drivers, wretched with cold faces, necks andfeet, speeding for scores of unknown doors and entrances,scattering to an infinite variety of shelters, to places which theimagination made warm with the familiar colours of home.
There was an absolute expression of hot dinners in the pace ofthe people. If one dared to speculate upon the destination of thosewho came trooping, he lost himself in a maze of social calculation;he might fling a handful of sand and attempt to follow the flightof each particular grain. But as to the suggestion of hot dinners,he was in firm lines of thought, for it was upon every hurryingface. It is a matter of tradition; it is from the tales ofchildhood. It comes forth with every storm.
However, in a certain part of a dark west-side street, there wasa collection of men to whom these things were as if they were not.In this street was located a charitable house, where for five centsthe homeless of the city could get a bed at night, and in themorning coffee and bread.
During the afternoon of the storm, the whirling snows acted asdrivers, as men with whips, and at half-past three the walk beforethe closed doors of the house was covered with wanderers of thestreet, waiting. For some distance on either side of the place theycould be seen lurking in the doorways and behind projecting partsof buildings, gathering in close bunches in an effort to get warm.A covered wagon drawn up near the curb sheltered a dozen of them.Under the stairs that led to the elevated railway station, therewere six or eight, their hands stuffed deep in their pockets, theirshoulders stooped, jiggling their feet. Others always could be seencoming, a strange procession, some slouching along with thecharacteristic hopeless gait of professional strays, some comingwith hesitating steps, wearing the air of men to whom this sort ofthing was new.
It was an afternoon of incredible length. The snow, blowing intwisting clouds, sought out the men in their meagre hiding-places,and skilfully beat in among them, drenching their persons withshowers of fine stinging flakes. They crowded together, muttering,and fumbling in their pockets to get their red inflamed wristscovered by the cloth.
New-comers usually halted at one end of the groups and addresseda question, perhaps much as a matter of form, "Is it open yet?"
Those who had been waiting inclined to take the questionerseriously and became contemptuous. "No; do yeh think we'd bestandin' here?"
The gathering swelled in numbers steadily and persistently. Onecould always see them coming, trudging slowly through thestorm.
Finally, the little snow plains in the street began to assume aleaden hue from the shadows of evening. The buildings uprearedgloomily save where various windows became brilliant figures oflight, that made shimmers and splashes of yellow on the snow. Astreet lamp on the curb struggled to illuminate, but it was reducedto impotent blindness by the swift gusts of sleet crusting itspanes.
In this half-darkness, the men began to come from their shelterplaces and mass in front of the doors of charity. They were of alltypes, but the nationalities were mostly American, German, andIrish. Many were strong, healthy, clear-skinned fellows, with thatstamp of countenance which is not frequently seen upon seekersafter charity. There were men of undoubted patience, industry, andtemperance, who, in time of ill-fortune, do not habitually turn torail at the state of society, snarling at the arrogance of therich, and bemoaning the cowardice of the poor, but who at thesetimes are apt to wear a sudden and singular meekness, as if theysaw the world's progress marching from them, and were trying toperceive where they had failed, what they had lacked, to be thusvanquished in the race. Then there were others of the shifting,Bowery element, who were used to paying ten cents for a place tosleep, but who now came here because it was cheaper.
But they were all mixed in one mass so thoroughly that one couldnot have discerned the different elements, but for the fact thatthe labouring men, for the most part, remained silent and impassivein the blizzard, their eyes fixed on the windows of the house,statues of patience.
The sidewalk soon became completely blocked by the bodies of themen. They pressed close to one another like sheep in a winter'sgale, keeping one another warm by the heat of their bodies. Thesnow came down upon this compressed group of men until, directlyfrom above, it might have appeared like a heap of snow-coveredmerchandise, if it were not for the fact that the crowd swayedgently with a unanimous, rhythmical motion. It was wonderful to seehow the snow lay upon the heads and shoulders of these men, inlittle ridges an inch thick perhaps in places, the flakes steadilyadding drop and drop, precisely as they fall upon the unresistinggrass of the fields. The feet of the men were all wet and cold, andthe wish to warm them accounted for the slow, gentle, rhythmicalmotion. Occasionally some man whose ear or nose tingled acutelyfrom the cold winds would wriggle down until his head was protectedby the shoulders of his companions.
There was a continuous murmuring discussion as to theprobability of the doors being speedily opened. They persistentlylifted their eyes towards the windows. One could hear littlecombats of opinion.
"There's a light in th' winder!"
"Naw; it's a reflection f'm across th' way."
"Well, didn't I see 'em light it?"
"You did?"
"I did!"
"Well, then, that settles it!"
As the time approached when they expected to be allowed toenter, the men crowded to the doors in an unspeakable crush,jamming and wedging in a way that it seemed would crack bones. Theysurged heavily against the building in a powerful wave of pushingshoulders. Once a rumour flitted among all the tossing heads.
"They can't open th' door! Th' fellers er smack up agin'em."
Then a dull roar of rage came from the men on the outskirts; butall the time they strained and pushed until it appeared to beimpossible for those that they cried out against to do anything butbe crushed into pulp.
"Ah, git away f'm th' door!"
"Git outa that!"
"Throw 'em out!"
"Kill 'em!"
"Say, fellers, now, what th' 'ell? G've 'em a chance t' open th'door!"
"Yeh dam pigs, give 'em a chance t' open th' door!"
Men in the outskirts of the crowd occasionally yelled when aboot-heel of one of trampling feet crushed on their freezingextremities.
"Git off me feet, yeh clumsy tarrier!"
"Say, don't stand on me feet! Walk on th' ground!"
A man near the doors suddenly shouted—"O-o-oh! Le' meout—le' me out!" And another, a man of infinite valour, oncetwisted his head so as to half face those who were pushing behindhim. "Quit yer shovin', yeh"—and he delivered a volley of themost powerful and singular invective, straight into the faces ofthe men behind him. It was as if he was hammering the noses of themwith curses of triple brass. His face, red with rage, could be seenupon it, an expression of sublime disregard of consequences. Butnobody cared to reply to his imprecations; it was too cold. Many ofthem snickered, and all continued to push.
In occasional pauses of the crowd's movement the men hadopportunities to make jokes; usually grim things, and no doubt veryuncouth. Nevertheless, they were notable—one does not expectto find the quality of humour in a heap of old clothes under asnow-drift.
The winds seemed to grow fiercer as time wore on. Some of thegusts of snow that came down on the close collection of heads, cutlike knives and needles, and the men huddled, and swore, not likedark assassins, but in a sort of American fashion, grimly anddesperately, it is true, but yet with a wondrous under-effect,indefinable and mystic, as if there was some kind of humour in thiscatastrophe, in this situation in a night of snow-laden winds.
Once the window of the huge dry-goods shop across the streetfurnished material for a few moments of forgetfulness. In thebrilliantly-lighted space appeared the figure of a man. He wasrather stout and very well clothed. His beard was fashionedcharmingly after that of the Prince of Wales. He stood in anattitude of magnificent reflection. He slowly stroked his moustachewith a certain grandeur of manner, and looked down at thesnow-encrusted mob. From below, there was denoted a supremecomplacence in him. It seemed that the sight operated inversely,and enabled him to more clearly regard his own delightfulenvironment.
One of the mob chanced to turn his head, and perceived thefigure in the window. "Hello, lookit 'is whiskers," he saidgenially.
Many of the men turned then, and a shout went up. They called tohim in all strange keys. They addressed him in every manner, fromfamiliar and cordial greetings, to carefully-worded adviceconcerning changes in his personal appearance. The man presentlyfled, and the mob chuckled ferociously, like ogres who had justdevoured something.
They turned then to serious business. Often they addressed thestolid front of the house.
"Oh, let us in fer Gawd's sake!"
"Let us in, or we'll all drop dead!"
"Say, what's th' use o' keepin' us poor Indians out in th'cold?"
And always some one was saying, "Keep off my feet."
The crushing of the crowd grew terrific toward the last. Themen, in keen pain from the blasts, began almost to fight. With thepitiless whirl of snow upon them, the battle for shelter was goingto the strong. It became known that the basement door at the footof a little steep flight of stairs was the one to be opened, andthey jostled and heaved in this direction like labouring fiends.One could hear them panting and groaning in their fierceexertion.
Usually some one in the front ranks was protesting to those inthe rear—"O-o-ow! Oh, say now, fellers, let up, will yeh? Doyeh wanta kill somebody!"
A policeman arrived and went into the midst of them, scoldingand be-rating, occasionally threatening, but using no force butthat of his hands and shoulders against these men who were onlystruggling to get in out of the storm. His decisive tones rang outsharply—"Stop that pushin' back there! Come, boys, don'tpush! Stop that! Here you, quit yer shovin'! Cheese that!"
When the door below was opened, a thick stream of men forced away down the stairs, which were of an extraordinary narrowness, andseemed only wide enough for one at a time. Yet they somehow wentdown almost three abreast. It was a difficult and painfuloperation. The crowd was like a turbulent water forcing itselfthrough one tiny outlet. The men in the rear, excited by thesuccess of the others, made frantic exertions, for it seemed thatthis large band would more than fill the quarters, and that manywould be left upon the pavements. It would be disastrous to be ofthe last, and accordingly men with the snow biting their faces,writhed and twisted with their might. One expected that from thetremendous pressure, the narrow passage to the basement door wouldbe so choked and clogged with human limbs and bodies that movementwould be impossible. Once indeed the crowd was forced to stop, anda cry went along that a man had been injured at the foot of thestairs. But presently the slow movement began again, and thepoliceman fought at the top of the flight to ease the pressure ofthose that were going down.
A reddish light from a window fell upon the faces of the men,when they, in turn, arrived at the last three steps, and were aboutto enter. One could then note a change of expression that had comeover their features. As they stood thus upon the threshold of theirhopes, they looked suddenly contented and complacent. The fire hadpassed from their eyes and the snarl had vanished from their lips.The very force of the crowd in the rear, which had previously vexedthem, was regarded from another point of view, for it now made itinevitable that they should go through the little doors into theplace that was cheery and warm with light.
The tossing crowd on the sidewalk grew smaller and smaller. Thesnow beat with merciless persistence upon the bowed heads of thosewho waited. The wind drove it up from the pavements in franticforms of winding white, and it seethed in circles about the huddledforms passing in one by one, three by three, out of the storm.
Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but his couragecould throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral. Therewere men on Cherry Street who had whipped him five times, but theyall knew that Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as ifnothing had happened.
Once he and two friends had been away up on Eighth Avenue, farout of their country, and upon their return journey that eveningthey stopped frequently in saloons until they were as independentof their surroundings as eagles, and cared much less about thirtydays on Blackwell's.
On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where there was agood deal of lamp-glare and polished wood to be seen from theoutside, and within, the mellow light shone on much furbished brassand more polished wood. It was a better saloon than they were inthe habit of seeing, but they did not mind it. They sat down at oneof the little tables that were in a row parallel to the bar andordered beer. They blinked stolidly at the decorations, thebar-tender, and the other customers. When anything transpired theydiscussed it with dazzling frankness, and what they said of it wasas free as air to the other people in the place.
At midnight there were few people in the saloon. Patsy and hisfriends still sat drinking. Two well-dressed men were at anothertable, smoking cigars slowly and swinging back in their chairs.They occupied themselves with themselves in the usual manner, neverbetraying by a wink of an eyelid that they knew that other folkexisted. At another table directly behind Patsy and his companionswas a slim little Cuban, with miraculously small feet and hands,and with a youthful touch of down upon his lip. As he lifted hiscigarette from time to time his little finger was bended in daintyfashion, and there was a green flash when a huge emerald ringcaught the light. The bar-tender came often with his little brasstray. Occasionally Patsy and his two friends quarrelled.
Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight noise andPatsy turned his head to observe him. Then Patsy made a carelessand rather loud comment to his two friends. He used a word which isno more than passing the time of day down in Cherry Street, but tothe Cuban it was a dagger-point. There was a harsh scraping soundas a chair was pushed swiftly back.
The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes were shining with arage that flashed there like sparks as he glared at Patsy. Hisolive face had turned a shade of grey from his anger. Withal hischest was thrust out in portentous dignity, and his hand, stillgrasping his wine-glass, was cool and steady, the little fingerstill bended, the great emerald gleaming upon it. The others,motionless, stared at him.
"Sir," he began ceremoniously. He spoke gravely and in a slowway, his tone coming in a marvel of self-possessed cadences frombetween those lips which quivered with wrath. "You have insult me.You are a dog, a hound, a cur. I spit upon you. I must have some ofyour blood."
Patsy looked at him over his shoulder.
"What's th' matter wi' che?" he demanded. He did not quiteunderstand the words of this little man who glared at him steadily,but he knew that it was something about fighting. He snarled withthe readiness of his class and heaved his shoulders contemptuously."Ah, what's eatin' yeh? Take a walk! You h'ain't got nothin' t' dowith me, have yeh? Well, den, go sit on yerself."
And his companions leaned back valorously in their chairs, andscrutinized this slim young fellow who was addressing Patsy.
"What's de little Dago chewin' about?"
"He wants t' scrap!"
"What!"
The Cuban listened with apparent composure. It was only whenthey laughed that his body cringed as if he was receiving lashes.Presently he put down his glass and walked over to their table. Heproceeded always with the most impressive deliberation.
"Sir," he began again. "You have insult me. I must haves-s-satisfac-shone. I must have your body upon the point of mysword. In my country you would already be dead. I must haves-s-satisfac-shone."
Patsy had looked at the Cuban with a trifle of bewilderment. Butat last his face began to grow dark with belligerency, his mouthcurve in that wide sneer with which he would confront an angel ofdarkness. He arose suddenly in his seat and came towards the littleCuban. He was going to be impressive too.
"Say, young feller, if yeh go shootin' off fer face at me, I'llwipe d' joint wid yeh. What'cher gaffin' about, hey? Are yeh givin'me er jolly? Say, if yeh pick me up fer a cinch, I'll fool yeh.Dat's what! Don't take me fer no dead easy mug." And as he gloweredat the little Cuban, he ended his oration with one eloquent word,"Nit!"
The bar-tender nervously polished his bar with a towel, and kepthis eyes fastened upon the men. Occasionally he became transfixedwith interest, leaning forward with one hand upon the edge of thebar and the other holding the towel grabbed in a lump, as if he hadbeen turned into bronze when in the very act of polishing.
The Cuban did not move when Patsy came toward him and deliveredhis oration. At its conclusion he turned his livid face towardwhere, above him, Patsy was swaggering and heaving his shoulders ina consummate display of bravery and readiness. The Cuban, in hisclear, tense tones, spoke one word. It was the bitter insult. Itseemed to fairly spin from his lips and crackle in the air likebreaking glass.
Every man save the little Cuban made an electric movement. Patsyroared a black oath and thrust himself forward until he toweredalmost directly above the other man. His fists were doubled intoknots of bone and hard flesh. The Cuban had raised a steadyfinger.
"If you touch me wis your hand, I will keel you."
The two well-dressed men had come swiftly, uttering protestingcries. They suddenly intervened in this second of time in whichPatsy had sprung forward and the Cuban had uttered his threat. Thefour men were now a tossing, arguing, violent group, onewell-dressed man lecturing the Cuban, and the other holding offPatsy, who was now wild with rage, loudly repeating the Cuban'sthreat, and manoeuvring and struggling to get at him for revenge'ssake.
The bar-tender, feverishly scouring away with his towel, and attimes pacing to and fro with nervous and excited tread, shoutedout—
"Say, for heaven's sake, don't fight in here. If yeh wantafight, go out in the street and fight all yeh please. But don'tfight in here."
Patsy knew only one thing, and this he kept repeating—
"Well, he wants t' scrap! I didn't begin dis! He wants t'scrap."
The well-dressed man confronting him continuallyreplied—
"Oh, well, now, look here, he's only a lad. He don't know whathe's doing. He's crazy mad. You wouldn't slug a kid like that."
Patsy and his aroused companions, who cursed and growled, werepersistent with their argument. "Well, he wants t' scrap!" Thewhole affair was as plain as daylight when one saw this great fact.The interference and intolerable discussion brought the three ofthem forward, battleful and fierce.
"What's eatin' you, anyhow?" they demanded. "Dis ain't yourbusiness, is it? What business you got shootin' off your face?"
The other peacemaker was trying to restrain the little Cuban,who had grown shrill and violent.
"If he touch me wis his hand I will keel him. We must fight likegentlemen or else I keel him when he touch me wis his hand."
The man who was fending off Patsy comprehended these sentencesthat were screamed behind his back, and he explained toPatsy—
"But he wants to fight you with swords. With swords, youknow."
The Cuban, dodging around the peacemakers, yelled in Patsy'sface—
"Ah, if I could get you before me wis my sword! Ah! Ah! A-a-ah!"Patsy made a furious blow with a swift fist, but the peacemakersbucked against his body suddenly like football players.
Patsy was greatly puzzled. He continued doggedly to try to getnear enough to the Cuban to punch him. To these attempts the Cubanreplied savagely—
"If you touch me wis your hand, I will cut your heart in twopiece."
At last Patsy said—"Well, if he's so dead stuck onfightin' wid swords, I'll fight 'im. Soitenly! I'll fight 'im." Allthis palaver had evidently tired him, and he now puffed out hislips with the air of a man who is willing to submit to anyconditions if he can only bring on the row soon enough. Heswaggered, "I'll fight 'im wid swords. Let 'im bring on his swords,an' I'll fight 'im 'til he's ready t' quit."
The two well-dressed men grinned. "Why, look here," they said toPatsy, "he'd punch you full of holes. Why, he's a fencer. You can'tfight him with swords. He'd kill you in 'bout a minute."
"Well, I'll giv' 'im a go at it, anyhow," said Patsy,stout-hearted and resolute. "I'll giv' 'im a go at it, anyhow, an'I'll stay wid 'im long as I kin."
As for the Cuban, his lithe little body was quivering in anecstasy of the muscles. His face radiant with a savage joy, hefastened his glance upon Patsy, his eyes gleaming with a gloating,murderous light. A most unspeakable, animal-like rage was in hisexpression.
"Ah! ah! He will fight me! Ah!" He bended unconsciously in theposture of a fencer. He had all the quick, springy movements of askilful swordsman. "Ah, the b-r-r-rute! The b-r-r-rute! I willstick him like a pig!"
The two peacemakers, still grinning broadly, were having a greattime with Patsy.
"Why, you infernal idiot, this man would slice you all up. Youbetter jump off the bridge if you want to commit suicide. Youwouldn't stand a ghost of a chance to live ten seconds."
Patsy was as unshaken as granite. "Well, if he wants t' fightwid swords, he'll get it. I'll giv' 'im a go at it, anyhow."
One man said—"Well, have you got a sword? Do you know whata sword is? Have you got a sword?"
"No, I ain't got none," said Patsy honestly, "but I kin gitone." Then he added valiantly—"An' quick too."
The two men laughed. "Why, can't you understand it would be suredeath to fight a sword duel with this fellow?"
"Dat's all right! See? I know me own business. If he wants t'fight one of dees d—n duels, I'm in it, understan'?"
"Have you ever fought one, you fool?"
"No, I ain't. But I will fight one, dough! I ain't no muff. Ifhe want t' fight a duel, by Gawd, I'm wid 'im! D'yeh understan'dat!" Patsy cocked his hat and swaggered. He was getting veryserious.
The little Cuban burst out—"Ah, come on, sirs: come on! Wecan take cab. Ah, you big cow, I will stick you, I will stick you.Ah, you will look very beautiful, very beautiful. Ah, come on,sirs. We will stop at hotel—my hotel. I there haveweapons."
"Yeh will, will yeh? Yeh bloomin' little black Dago," criedPatsy in hoarse and maddened reply to the personal part of theCuban's speech. He stepped forward. "Git yer d—n swords," hecommanded. "Git yer swords. Git 'em quick! I'll fight wi' che! I'llfight wid anyting, too! See? I'll fight yeh wid a knife an' fork ifyeh say so! I'll fight yer standin' up er sittin' down!" Patsydelivered this intense oration with sweeping, intensely emphaticgestures, his hands stretched out eloquently, his jaw thrustforward, his eyes glaring.
"Ah," cried the little Cuban joyously. "Ah, you are in verypretty temper. Ah, how I will cut your heart in two piece, my dear,d-e-a-r friend." His eyes, too, shone like carbuncles, with aswift, changing glitter, always fastened upon Patsy's face.
The two peacemakers were perspiring and in despair. One of themblurted out—
"Well, I'll be blamed if this ain't the most ridiculous thing Iever saw."
The other said—"For ten dollars I'd be tempted to letthese two infernal blockheads have their duel."
Patsy was strutting to and fro, and conferring grandly with hisfriends.
"He took me for a muff. He tought he was goin' t' bluff me out,talkin' 'bout swords. He'll get fooled." He addressed theCuban—"You're a fine little dirty picter of a scrapper, ain'tche? I'll chew yez up, dat's what I will."
There began then some rapid action. The patience of well-dressedmen is not an eternal thing. It began to look as if it would atlast be a fight with six corners to it. The faces of the men wereshining red with anger. They jostled each other defiantly, andalmost every one blazed out at three or four of the others. Thebar-tender had given up protesting. He swore for a time, and bangedhis glasses. Then he jumped the bar and ran out of the saloon,cursing sullenly.
When he came back with a policeman, Patsy and the Cuban werepreparing to depart together. Patsy was delivering his lastoration—
"I'll fight yer wid swords! Sure I will! Come ahead, Dago! I'llfight yeh anywheres wid anyting! We'll have a large, juicy scrap,an' don't yeh forgit dat! I'm right wid yez. I ain't no muff! Iscrap wid a man jest as soon as he ses scrap, an' if yeh wantascrap, I'm yer kitten. Understan' dat?"
The policeman said sharply—"Come, now; what's all this?"He had a distinctly business air.
The little Cuban stepped forward calmly. "It is none of yourbusiness."
The policeman flushed to his ears. "What?"
One well-dressed man touched the other on the sleeve. "Here'sthe time to skip," he whispered. They halted a block away from thesaloon and watched the policeman pull the Cuban through the door.There was a minute of scuffle on the sidewalk, and into thisdeserted street at midnight fifty people appeared at once as iffrom the sky to watch it.
At last the three Cherry Hill men came from the saloon, andswaggered with all their old valour toward the peacemakers.
"Ah," said Patsy to them, "he was so hot talkin' about this duelbusiness, but I would a-given 'im a great scrap, an' don't yehforgit it."
For Patsy was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage couldthrow a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral.
A baby was wandering in a strange country. He was a tatteredchild with a frowsled wealth of yellow hair. His dress, of achecked stuff, was soiled, and showed the marks of many conflicts,like the chain-shirt of a warrior. His sun-tanned knees shone abovewrinkled stockings, which he pulled up occasionally with animpatient movement when they entangled his feet. From a gaping shoethere appeared an array of tiny toes.
He was toddling along an avenue between rows of stolid brownhouses. He went slowly, with a look of absorbed interest on hissmall flushed face. His blue eyes stared curiously. Carriages wentwith a musical rumble over the smooth asphalt. A man with achrysanthemum was going up steps. Two nursery maids chatted as theywalked slowly, while their charges hobnobbed amiably betweenperambulators. A truck wagon roared thunderously in thedistance.
The child from the poor district made his way along the brownstreet filled with dull grey shadows. High up, near the roofs,glancing sun-rays changed cornices to blazing gold and silvered thefronts of windows. The wandering baby stopped and stared at the twochildren laughing and playing in their carriages among the heaps ofrugs and cushions. He braced his legs apart in an attitude ofearnest attention. His lower jaw fell, and disclosed his small,even teeth. As they moved on, he followed the carriages with awe inhis face as if contemplating a pageant. Once one of the babies,with twittering laughter, shook a gorgeous rattle at him. He smiledjovially in return.
Finally a nursery maid ceased conversation and, turning, made agesture of annoyance.
"Go 'way, little boy," she said to him. "Go 'way. You're alldirty."
He gazed at her with infant tranquillity for a moment, and thenwent slowly off dragging behind him a bit of rope he had acquiredin another street. He continued to investigate the new scenes. Thepeople and houses struck him with interest as would flowers andtrees. Passengers had to avoid the small, absorbed figure in themiddle of the sidewalk. They glanced at the intent baby facecovered with scratches and dust as with scars and with powdersmoke.
After a time, the wanderer discovered upon the pavement a prettychild in fine clothes playing with a toy. It was a tinyfire-engine, painted brilliantly in crimson and gold. The wheelsrattled as its small owner dragged it uproariously about by meansof a string. The babe with his bit of rope trailing behind himpaused and regarded the child and the toy. For a long while heremained motionless, save for his eyes, which followed allmovements of the glittering thing. The owner paid no attention tothe spectator, but continued his joyous imitations of phases of thecareer of a fire-engine. His gleeful baby laugh rang against thecalm fronts of the houses. After a little the wandering baby beganquietly to sidle nearer. His bit of rope, now forgotten, dropped athis feet. He removed his eyes from the toy and glanced expectantlyat the other child.
"Say," he breathed softly.
The owner of the toy was running down the walk at top speed. Histongue was clanging like a bell and his legs were galloping. He didnot look around at the coaxing call from the small tattered figureon the curb.
The wandering baby approached still nearer, and presently spokeagain.
"Say," he murmured, "le' me play wif it?"
The other child interrupted some shrill tootings. He bended hishead and spoke disdainfully over his shoulder.
"No," he said.
The wanderer retreated to the curb. He failed to notice the bitof rope, once treasured. His eyes followed as before the windingcourse of the engine, and his tender mouth twitched.
"Say," he ventured at last, "is dat yours?"
"Yes," said the other, tilting his round chin. He drew hisproperty suddenly behind him as if it were menaced. "Yes," herepeated, "it's mine."
"Well, le' me play wif it?" said the wandering baby, with atrembling note of desire in his voice.
"No," cried the pretty child with determined lips. "It's mine.My ma-ma buyed it."
"Well, tan't I play wif it?" His voice was a sob. He stretchedforth little covetous hands.
"No," the pretty child continued to repeat. "No, it's mine."
"Well, I want to play wif it," wailed the other. A sudden fiercefrown mantled his baby face. He clenched his fat hands and advancedwith a formidable gesture. He looked some wee battler in a war.
"It's mine! It's mine," cried the pretty child, his voice in thetreble of outraged rights.
"I want it," roared the wanderer.
"It's mine! It's mine!"
"I want it!"
"It's mine!"
The pretty child retreated to the fence, and there paused atbay. He protected his property with outstretched arms. The smallvandal made a charge. There was a short scuffle at the fence. Eachgrasped the string to the toy and tugged. Their faces were wrinkledwith baby rage, the verge of tears. Finally, the child in tattersgave a supreme tug and wrenched the string from the other's hands.He set off rapidly down the street, bearing the toy in his arms. Hewas weeping with the air of a wronged one who has at last succeededin achieving his rights. The other baby was squalling lustily. Heseemed quite helpless. He rung his chubby hands and railed.
After the small barbarian had got some distance away, he pausedand regarded his booty. His little form curved with pride. A soft,gleeful smile loomed through the storm of tears. With great care heprepared the toy for travelling. He stopped a moment on a cornerand gazed at the pretty child, whose small figure was quiveringwith sobs. As the latter began to show signs of beginning pursuit,the little vandal turned and vanished down a dark side street asinto a cavern.
An Italian kept a fruit-stand on a corner where he had good aimat the people who came down from the elevated station, and at thosewho went along two thronged streets. He sat most of the day in abackless chair that was placed strategically.
There was a babe living hard by, up five flights of stairs, whoregarded this Italian as a tremendous being. The babe hadinvestigated this fruit-stand. It had thrilled him as few things hehad met with in his travels had thrilled him. The sweets of theworld had laid there in dazzling rows, tumbled in luxurious heaps.When he gazed at this Italian seated amid such splendid treasures,his lower lip hung low and his eyes, raised to the vendor's face,were filled with deep respect, worship, as if he sawomnipotence.
The babe came often to this corner. He hovered about the standand watched each detail of the business. He was fascinated by thetranquillity of the vendor, the majesty of power and possession. Attimes he was so engrossed in his contemplation that people,hurrying, had to use care to avoid bumping him down.
He had never ventured very near to the stand. It was his habitto hang warily about the curb. Even there he resembled a babe wholooks unbidden at a feast of gods.
One day, however, as the baby was thus staring, the vendorarose, and going along the front of the stand, began to polishoranges with a red pocket handkerchief. The breathless spectatormoved across the side walk until his small face almost touched thevendor's sleeve. His fingers were gripped in a fold of hisdress.
At last, the Italian finished with the oranges and returned tohis chair. He drew a newspaper printed in his language from behinda bunch of bananas. He settled himself in a comfortable position,and began to glare savagely at the print. The babe was left face toface with the massed joys of the world. For a time he was a simpleworshipper at this golden shrine. Then tumultuous desires began toshake him. His dreams were of conquest. His lips moved. Presentlyinto his head there came a little plan. He sidled nearer, throwingswift and cunning glances at the Italian. He strove to maintain hisconventional manner, but the whole plot was written upon hiscountenance.
At last he had come near enough to touch the fruit. From thetattered skirt came slowly his small dirty hand. His eyes werestill fixed upon the vendor. His features were set, save for theunder lip, which had a faint fluttering movement. The hand wentforward.
Elevated trains thundered to the station and the stairway pouredpeople upon the sidewalks. There was a deep sea roar from feet andwheels going ceaselessly. None seemed to perceive the babe engagedin a great venture.
The Italian turned his paper. Sudden panic smote the babe. Hishand dropped, and he gave vent to a cry of dismay. He remained fora moment staring at the vendor. There was evidently a great debatein his mind. His infant intellect had defined this Italian. Thelatter was undoubtedly a man who would eat babes that provoked him.And the alarm in the babe when this monarch had turned hisnewspaper brought vividly before him the consequences if he weredetected. But at this moment the vendor gave a blissful grunt, andtilting his chair against a wall, closed his eyes. His paperdropped unheeded.
The babe ceased his scrutiny and again raised his hand. It wasmoved with supreme caution toward the fruit. The fingers were bent,claw-like, in the manner of great heart-shaking greed. Once hestopped and chattered convulsively, because the vendor moved in hissleep. The babe, with his eyes still upon the Italian, again putforth his hand, and the rapacious fingers closed over a roundbulb.
And it was written that the Italian should at this moment openhis eyes. He glared at the babe a fierce question. Thereupon thebabe thrust the round bulb behind him, and with a face expressiveof the deepest guilt, began a wild but elaborate series of gesturesdeclaring his innocence. The Italian howled. He sprang to his feet,and with three steps overtook the babe. He whirled him fiercely,and took from the little fingers a lemon.
The windows were high and saintly, of the shape that is found inchurches. From time to time a policeman at the door spoke sharplyto some incoming person. "Take your hat off!" He displayed in hisvoice the horror of a priest when the sanctity of a chapel isdefied or forgotten. The court-room was crowded with people whosloped back comfortably in their chairs, regarding with undeviatingglances the procession and its attendant and guardian policementhat moved slowly inside the spear-topped railing. All personsconnected with a case went close to the magistrate's desk before aword was spoken in the matter, and then their voices were toned tothe ordinary talking strength. The crowd in the court-room couldnot hear a sentence; they could merely see shifting figures, menthat gestured quietly, women that sometimes raised an eagereloquent arm. They could not always see the judge, although theywere able to estimate his location by the tall stands surmounted bywhite globes that were at either hand of him. And so those who hadcome for curiosity's sweet sake wore an air of being in wait for acry of anguish, some loud painful protestation that would bring theproper thrill to their jaded, world-weary nerves—wires thatrefused to vibrate for ordinary affairs.
Inside the railing the court officers shuffled the variousgroups with speed and skill; and behind the desk the magistratepatiently toiled his way through mazes of wonderful testimony.
In a corner of this space, devoted to those who had businessbefore the judge, an officer in plain clothes stood with a girlthat wept constantly. None seemed to notice the girl, and there wasno reason why she should be noticed, if the curious in the body ofthe court-room were not interested in the devastation which tearsbring upon some complexions. Her tears seemed to burn like acid,and they left fierce pink marks on her face. Occasionally the girllooked across the room, where two well-dressed young women and aman stood waiting with the serenity of people who are not concernedas to the interior fittings of a jail.
The business of the court progressed, and presently the girl,the officer, and the well-dressed contingent stood before thejudge. Thereupon two lawyers engaged in some preliminaryfire-wheels, which were endured generally in silence. The girl, itappeared, was accused of stealing fifty dollars' worth of silkclothing from the room of one of the well-dressed women. She hadbeen a servant in the house.
In a clear way, and with none of the ferocity that an accuseroften exhibits in a police-court, calmly and moderately, the twoyoung women gave their testimony. Behind them stood their escort,always mute. His part, evidently, was to furnish the dignity, andhe furnished it heavily, almost massively.
When they had finished, the girl told her part. She had full,almost Afric, lips, and they had turned quite white. The lawyer forthe others asked some questions, which he did—be it said, inpassing—with the air of a man throwing flower-pots at a stonehouse.
It was a short case and soon finished. At the end of it thejudge said that, considering the evidence, he would have to committhe girl for trial. Instantly the quick-eyed court officer began toclear the way for the next case. The well-dressed women and theirescort turned one way and the girl turned another, toward a doorwith an austere arch leading into a stone-paved passage. Then itwas that a great cry rang through the court-room, the cry of thisgirl who believed that she was lost.
The loungers, many of them, underwent a spasmodic movement as ifthey had been knived. The court officers rallied quickly. The girlfell back opportunely for the arms of one of them, and her wildheels clicked twice on the floor. "I am innocent! Oh, I aminnocent!"
People pity those who need none, and the guilty sob alone; butinnocent or guilty, this girl's scream described such a profounddepth of woe—it was so graphic of grief, that it slit with adagger's sweep the curtain of common-place, and disclosed thegloom-shrouded spectre that sat in the young girl's heart soplainly, in so universal a tone of the mind, that a man heardexpressed some far-off midnight terror of his own thought.
The cries died away down the stone-paved passage. A patrol-manleaned one arm composedly on the railing, and down below him stoodan aged, almost toothless wanderer, tottering and grinning.
"Plase, yer honer," said the old man as the time arrived for himto speak, "if ye'll lave me go this time, I've niver been dhrunkbefoor, sir."
A court officer lifted his hand to hide a smile.
Some said that Ferguson gave up sailoring because he was tiredof the sea. Some said that it was because he loved a woman. Intruth it was because he was tired of the sea and because he loved awoman.
He saw the woman once, and immediately she became for him thesymbol of all things unconnected with the sea. He did not troubleto look again at the grey old goddess, the muttering slave of themoon. Her splendours, her treacheries, her smiles, her rages, hervanities, were no longer on his mind. He took heels after a littlehuman being, and the woman made his thought spin at all times likea top; whereas the ocean had only made him think when he was onwatch.
He developed a grin for the power of the sea, and, in derision,he wanted to sell the red and green parrot which had sailed fourvoyages with him. The woman, however, had a sentiment concerningthe bird's plumage, and she commanded Ferguson to keep it in order,as it happened, that she might forget to put food in its cage.
The parrot did not attend the wedding. It stayed at home andblasphemed at a stock of furniture, bought on the installment plan,and arrayed for the reception of the bride and groom.
As a sailor, Ferguson had suffered the acute hankering for port;and being now always in port, he tried to force life to become anendless picnic. He was not an example of diligent and peacefulcitizenship. Ablution became difficult in the little apartment,because Ferguson kept the wash-basin filled with ice and bottles ofbeer: and so, finally, the dealer in second-hand furniture agreedto auction the household goods on commission. Owing to anexceedingly liberal definition of a term, the parrot and cage wereincluded. "On the level?" cried the parrot, "On the level? On thelevel? On the level?"
On the way to the sale, Ferguson's wife spoke hopefully. "Youcan't tell, Jim," she said. "Perhaps some of 'em will get tobiddin', and we might get almost as much as we paid for thethings."
The auction room was in a cellar. It was crowded with people andwith house furniture; so that as the auctioneer's assistant movedfrom one piece to another he caused a great shuffling. There was anastounding number of old women in curious bonnets. The ricketystairway was thronged with men who wished to smoke and be free fromthe old women. Two lamps made all the faces appear yellow asparchment. Incidentally they could impart a lustre of value to verypoor furniture.
The auctioneer was a fat, shrewd-looking individual, who seemedalso to be a great bully. The assistant was the most imperturbableof beings, moving with the dignity of an image on rollers. As theFergusons forced their way down the stair-way, the assistantroared: "Number twenty-one!"
"Number twenty-one!" cried the auctioneer. "Number twenty-one! Afine new handsome bureau! Two dollars? Two dollars is bid! Two anda half! Two and a half! Three? Three is bid. Four! Four dollars! Afine new handsome bureau at four dollars! Four dollars! Fourdollars! F-o-u-r d-o-l-l-a-r-s! Sold at four dollars."
"On the level?" cried the parrot, muffled somewhere amongfurniture and carpets. "On the level? On the level?" Every onetittered.
Mrs. Ferguson had turned pale, and gripped her husband's arm."Jim! Did you hear? The bureau—four dollars—"
Ferguson glowered at her with the swift brutality of a manafraid of a scene. "Shut up, can't you!"
Mrs. Ferguson took a seat upon the steps; and hidden there bythe thick ranks of men, she began to softly sob. Through her tearsappeared the yellowish mist of the lamplight, streaming about themonstrous shadows of the spectators. From time to time these latterwhispered eagerly: "See, that went cheap!" In fact when anythingwas bought at a particularly low price, a murmur of admirationarose for the successful bidder.
The bedstead was sold for two dollars, the mattresses andsprings for one dollar and sixty cents. This figure seemed to gothrough the woman's heart. There was derision in the sound of it.She bowed her head in her hands. "Oh, God, a dollar-sixty! Oh, God,a dollar-sixty!"
The parrot was evidently under heaps of carpet, but thedauntless bird still raised the cry, "On the level?"
Some of the men near Mrs. Ferguson moved timidly away uponhearing her low sobs. They perfectly understood that a woman intears is formidable.
The shrill voice went like a hammer, beat and beat, upon thewoman's heart. An odour of varnish, of the dust of old carpets,assailed her and seemed to possess a sinister meaning. The goldenhaze from the two lamps was an atmosphere of shame, sorrow, greed.But it was when the parrot called that a terror of the place and ofthe eyes of the people arose in her so strongly that she could nothave lifted her head any more than if her neck had been ofiron.
At last came the parrot's turn. The assistant fumbled until hefound the ring of the cage, and the bird was drawn into view. Itadjusted its feathers calmly and cast a rolling wicked eye over thecrowd.
"Oh, the good ship Sarah sailed the seas,
And the wind it blew all day—"
This was the part of a ballad which Ferguson had tried to teachit. With a singular audacity and scorn, the parrot bawled theselines at the auctioneer as if it considered them to bear someparticular insult.
The throng in the cellar burst into laughter. The auctioneerattempted to start the bidding, and the parrot interrupted with arepetition of the lines. It swaggered to and fro on its perch, andgazed at the faces of the crowd, with so much rowdy understandingand derision that even the auctioneer could not confront it. Theauction was brought to a halt; a wild hilarity developed, and everyone gave jeering advice.
Ferguson looked down at his wife and groaned. She had coweredagainst the wall, hiding her face. He touched her shoulder and shearose. They sneaked softly up the stairs with heads bowed.
Out in the street, Ferguson gripped his fists and said: "Oh, butwouldn't I like to strangle it!"
His wife cried in a voice of wild grief: "It—itm—made us a laughing-stock in—in front of all thatcrowd!"
For the auctioning of their household goods, the sale of theirhome—this financial calamity lost its power in the presenceof the social shame contained in a crowd's laughter.
I
Stimson stood in a corner and glowered. He was a fierce man andhad indomitable whiskers, albeit he was very small.
"That young tarrier," he whispered to himself. "He wants to quitmakin' eyes at Lizzie. This is too much of a good thing. Firstthing you know, he'll get fired."
His brow creased in a frown, he strode over to the huge opendoors and looked at a sign. "Stimson's Mammoth Merry-Go-Round," itread, and the glory of it was great. Stimson stood and contemplatedthe sign. It was an enormous affair; the letters were as large asmen. The glow of it, the grandeur of it was very apparent toStimson. At the end of his contemplation, he shook his headthoughtfully, determinedly. "No, no," he muttered. "This is toomuch of a good thing. First thing you know, he'll get fired."
A soft booming sound of surf, mingled with the cries of bathers,came from the beach. There was a vista of sand and sky and sea thatdrew to a mystic point far away in the northward. In the mightyangle, a girl in a red dress was crawling slowly like some kind ofa spider on the fabric of nature. A few flags hung lazily abovewhere the bath-houses were marshalled in compact squares. Upon theedge of the sea stood a ship with its shadowy sails painted dimlyupon the sky, and high overhead in the still, sun-shot air a greathawk swung and drifted slowly.
Within the Merry-Go-Round there was a whirling circle ofornamental lions, giraffes, camels, ponies, goats, glittering withvarnish and metal that caught swift reflections from windows highabove them. With stiff wooden legs, they swept on in a never-endingrace, while a great orchestrion clamoured in wild speed. The summersunlight sprinkled its gold upon the garnet canopies carried by thetireless racers and upon all the devices of decoration that madeStimson's machine magnificent and famous. A host of laughingchildren bestrode the animals, bending forward like chargingcavalrymen, and shaking reins and whooping in glee. At intervalsthey leaned out perilously to clutch at iron rings that weretendered to them by a long wooden arm. At the intense moment beforethe swift grab for the rings one could see their little nervousbodies quiver with eagerness; the laughter rang shrill and excited.Down in the long rows of benches, crowds of people sat watching thegame, while occasionally a father might arise and go near to shoutencouragement, cautionary commands, or applause at his flyingoffspring. Frequently mothers called out: "Be careful, Georgie!"The orchestrion bellowed and thundered on its platform, filling theears with its long monotonous song. Over in a corner, a man in awhite apron and behind a counter roared above the tumult: "Popcorn! Pop corn!"
A young man stood upon a small, raised platform, erected in amanner of a pulpit, and just without the line of the circlingfigures. It was his duty to manipulate the wooden arm and affix therings. When all were gone into the hands of the triumphantchildren, he held forth a basket, into which they returned all savethe coveted brass one, which meant another ride free and made theholder very illustrious. The young man stood all day upon hisnarrow platform, affixing rings or holding forth the basket. He wasa sort of general squire in these lists of childhood. He was verybusy.
And yet Stimson, the astute, had noticed that the young manfrequently found time to twist about on his platform and smile at agirl who shyly sold tickets behind a silvered netting. This,indeed, was the great reason of Stimson's glowering. The young manupon the raised platform had no manner of licence to smile at thegirl behind the silvered netting. It was a most gigantic insolence.Stimson was amazed at it. "By Jiminy," he said to himself again,"that fellow is smiling at my daughter." Even in this tone of greatwrath it could be discerned that Stimson was filled with wonderthat any youth should dare smile at the daughter in the presence ofthe august father.
Often the dark-eyed girl peered between the shining wires, and,upon being detected by the young man, she usually turned her headaway quickly to prove to him that she was not interested. At othertimes, however, her eyes seemed filled with a tender fear lest heshould fall from that exceedingly dangerous platform. As for theyoung man, it was plain that these glances filled him with valour,and he stood carelessly upon his perch, as if he deemed it of noconsequence that he might fall from it. In all the complexities ofhis daily life and duties he found opportunity to gaze ardently atthe vision behind the netting.
This silent courtship was conducted over the heads of the crowdwho thronged about the bright machine. The swift eloquent glancesof the young man went noiselessly and unseen with their message.There had finally become established between the two in this mannera subtle understanding and companionship. They communicatedaccurately all that they felt. The boy told his love, hisreverence, his hope in the changes of the future. The girl told himthat she loved him, that she did not love him, that she did notknow if she loved him, that she loved him. Sometimes a little signsaying "cashier" in gold letters, and hanging upon the silverednetting, got directly in range and interfered with the tendermessage.
The love affair had not continued without anger, unhappiness,despair. The girl had once smiled brightly upon a youth who came tobuy some tickets for his little sister, and the young man upon theplatform observing this smile had been filled with gloomy rage. Hestood like a dark statue of vengeance upon his pedestal and thrustout the basket to the children with a gesture that was full ofscorn for their hollow happiness, for their insecure and temporaryjoy. For five hours he did not once look at the girl when she waslooking at him. He was going to crush her with his indifference; hewas going to demonstrate that he had never been serious. However,when he narrowly observed her in secret he discovered that sheseemed more blythe than was usual with her. When he found that hisapparent indifference had not crushed her he suffered greatly. Shedid not love him, he concluded. If she had loved him she would havebeen crushed. For two days he lived a miserable existence upon hishigh perch. He consoled himself by thinking of how unhappy he was,and by swift, furtive glances at the loved face. At any rate he wasin her presence, and he could get a good view from his perch whenthere was no interference by the little sign: "Cashier."
But suddenly, swiftly, these clouds vanished, and under theimperial blue sky of the restored confidence they dwelt in peace, apeace that was satisfaction, a peace that, like a babe, put itstrust in the treachery of the future. This confidence endured untilthe next day, when she, for an unknown cause, suddenly refused tolook at him. Mechanically he continued his task, his brain dazed, atortured victim of doubt, fear, suspicion. With his eyes hesupplicated her to telegraph an explanation. She replied with astony glance that froze his blood. There was a great difference intheir respective reasons for becoming angry. His were alwaysfoolish, but apparent, plain as the moon. Hers were subtle,feminine, as incomprehensible as the stars, as mysterious as theshadows at night.
They fell and soared, and soared and fell in this manner untilthey knew that to live without each other would be a wandering indeserts. They had grown so intent upon the uncertainties, thevariations, the guessings of their affair that the world had becomebut a huge immaterial background. In time of peace their smileswere soft and prayerful, caresses confided to the air. In time ofwar, their youthful hearts, capable of profound agony, were wrungby the intricate emotions of doubt. They were the victims of thedread angel of affectionate speculation that forces the brainendlessly on roads that lead nowhere.
At night, the problem of whether she loved him confronted theyoung man like a spectre, looming as high as a hill and telling himnot to delude himself. Upon the following day, this battle of thenight displayed itself in the renewed fervour of his glances and intheir increased number. Whenever he thought he could detect thatshe too was suffering, he felt a thrill of joy.
But there came a time when the young man looked back upon thesecontortions with contempt. He believed then that he had imaginedhis pain. This came about when the redoubtable Stimson marchedforward to participate.
"This has got to stop," Stimson had said to himself, as he stoodand watched them. They had grown careless of the light world thatclattered about them; they were become so engrossed in theirpersonal drama that the language of their eyes was almost asobvious as gestures. And Stimson, through his keenness, hiswonderful, infallible penetration, suddenly came into possession ofthese obvious facts. "Well, of all the nerves," he said, regardingwith a new interest the young man upon the perch.
He was a resolute man. He never hesitated to grapple with acrisis. He decided to overturn everything at once, for, althoughsmall, he was very fierce and impetuous. He resolved to crush thisdreaming.
He strode over to the silvered netting. "Say, you want to quityour everlasting grinning at that idiot," he said, grimly.
The girl cast down her eyes and made a little heap of quartersinto a stack. She was unable to withstand the terrible scrutiny ofher small and fierce father.
Stimson turned from his daughter and went to a spot beneath theplatform. He fixed his eyes upon the young man and said—
"I've been speakin' to Lizzie. You better attend strictly toyour own business or there'll be a new man here next week." It wasas if he had blazed away with a shot-gun. The young man reeled uponhis perch. At last he in a measure regained his composure andmanaged to stammer: "A—all right, sir." He knew that denialswould be futile with the terrible Stimson. He agitatedly began torattle the rings in the basket, and pretend that he was obliged tocount them or inspect them in some way. He, too, was unable to facethe great Stimson.
For a moment, Stimson stood in fine satisfaction and gloatedover the effect of his threat.
"I've fixed them," he said complacently, and went out to smoke acigar and revel in himself. Through his mind went the proudreflection that people who came in contact with his granite willusually ended in quick and abject submission.
II
One evening, a week after Stimson had indulged in the proudreflection that people who came in contact with his granite willusually ended in quick and abject submission, a young femininefriend of the girl behind the silvered netting came to her thereand asked her to walk on the beach after "Stimson's MammothMerry-Go-Round" was closed for the night. The girl assented with anod.
The young man upon the perch holding the rings saw this nod andjudged its meaning. Into his mind came an idea of defeating thewatchfulness of the redoubtable Stimson.
When the Merry-Go-Round was closed and the two girls started forthe beach, he wandered off aimlessly in another direction, but hekept them in view, and as soon as he was assured that he hadescaped the vigilance of Stimson, he followed them.
The electric lights on the beach made a broad band of tremoringlight, extending parallel to the sea, and upon the wide walk thereslowly paraded a great crowd, intermingling, intertwining,sometimes colliding. In the darkness stretched the vast purpleexpanse of the ocean, and the deep indigo sky above was peopledwith yellow stars. Occasionally out upon the water a whirling massof froth suddenly flashed into view, like a great ghostly robeappearing, and then vanished, leaving the sea in its darkness, fromwhence came those bass tones of the water's unknown emotion. Awind, cool, reminiscent of the wave wastes, made the women holdtheir wraps about their throats, and caused the men to grip therims of their straw hats. It carried the noise of the band in thepavilion in gusts. Sometimes people unable to hear the music,glanced up at the pavilion and were reassured upon beholding thedistant leader still gesticulating and bobbing, and the othermembers of the band with their lips glued to their instruments.High in the sky soared an unassuming moon, faintly silver.
For a time the young man was afraid to approach the two girls;he followed them at a distance and called himself a coward. Atlast, however, he saw them stop on the outer edge of the crowd andstand silently listening to the voices of the sea. When he came towhere they stood, he was trembling in his agitation. They had notseen him.
"Lizzie," he began. "I—"
The girl wheeled instantly and put her hand to her throat.
"Oh, Frank, how you frightened me," shesaid—inevitably.
"Well, you know I—I—" he stuttered.
But the other girl was one of those beings who are born toattend at tragedies. She had for love a reverence, an admirationthat was greater the more that she contemplated the fact that sheknew nothing of it. This couple, with their emotions, awed her andmade her humbly wish that she might be destined to be of someservice to them. She was very homely.
When the young man faltered before them, she, in her sympathy,actually over-estimated the crisis, and felt that he might falldying at their feet. Shyly, but with courage, she marched to therescue.
"Won't you come and walk on the beach with us?" she said.
The young woman gave her a glance of deep gratitude which wasnot without the patronage which a man in his condition naturallyfeels for one who pities it. The three walked on.
Finally, the being who was born to attend at this tragedy, saidthat she wished to sit down and gaze at the sea, alone.
They politely urged her to walk on with them, but she wasobstinate. She wished to gaze at the sea, alone. The young manswore to himself that he would be her friend until he died.
And so the two young lovers went on without her. They turnedonce to look at her.
"Jennie's awful nice," said the girl.
"You bet she is," replied the young man, ardently.
They were silent for a little time.
At last the girl said—
"You were angry at me yesterday."
"No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were, too. You wouldn't look at me once all day."
"No, I wasn't angry. I was only putting on."
Though she had, of course, known it, this confession seemed tomake her very indignant. She flashed a resentful glance at him.
"Oh, were you, indeed?" she said with a great air.
For a few minutes she was so haughty with him that he loved herto madness. And directly this poem, which stuck at his lips, cameforth lamely in fragments.
When they walked back toward the other girl and saw the patienceof her attitude, their hearts swelled in a patronizing andsecondary tenderness for her.
They were very happy. If they had been miserable they would havecharged this fairy scene of the night with a criminalheartlessness; but as they were joyous, they vaguely wondered howthe purple sea, the yellow stars, the changing crowds under theelectric lights could be so phlegmatic and stolid.
They walked home by the lake-side way, and out upon the waterthose gay paper lanterns, flashing, fleeting, and careering, sangto them, sang a chorus of red and violet, and green and gold; asong of mystic bands of the future.
One day, when business paused during a dull sultry afternoon,Stimson went up town. Upon his return, he found that the popcornman, from his stand over in a corner, was keeping an eye upon thecashier's cage, and that nobody at all was attending to the woodenarm and the iron rings. He strode forward like a sergeant ofgrenadiers.
"Where in thunder is Lizzie?" he demanded, a cloud of rage inhis eyes.
The popcorn man, although associated long with Stimson, hadnever got over being dazed.
"They've—they've—gone round toth'—th'—house," he said with difficulty, as if he hadjust been stunned.
"Whose house?" snapped Stimson.
"Your—your house, I 'spose," said the popcorn man.
Stimson marched round to his home. Kingly denunciations surged,already formulated, to the tip of his tongue, and he bided themoment when his anger could fall upon the heads of that pair ofchildren. He found his wife convulsive and in tears.
"Where's Lizzie?"
And then she burst forth—"Oh—John—John-they'verun away, I know they have. They drove by here not three minutesago. They must have done it on purpose to bid me good-bye, forLizzie waved her hand sad-like; and then, before I could get out toask where they were going or what, Frank whipped up the horse."
Stimson gave vent to a dreadful roar.
"Get my revolver—get a hack—get my revolver, do youhear—what the devil—" His voice became incoherent.
He had always ordered his wife about as if she were a battalionof infantry, and despite her misery, the training of years forcedher to spring mechanically to obey; but suddenly she turned to himwith a shrill appeal.
"Oh, John—not—the—revolver."
"Confound it, let go of me," he roared again, and shook her fromhim.
He ran hatless upon the street. There were a multitude of hacksat the summer resort, but it was ages to him before he could findone. Then he charged it like a bull.
"Uptown," he yelled, as he tumbled into the rear seat.
The hackman thought of severed arteries. His galloping horsedistanced a large number of citizens who had been running to findwhat caused such contortions by the little hatless man.
It chanced as the bouncing hack went along near the lake,Stimson gazed across the calm grey expanse and recognized a colourin a bonnet and a pose of a head. A buggy was travelling along ahighway that led to Sorington. Stimsonbellowed—"There—there—there they are—inthat buggy."
The hackman became inspired with the full knowledge of thesituation. He struck a delirious blow with the whip. His mouthexpanded in a grin of excitement and joy. It came to pass that thisold vehicle, with its drowsy horse and its dusty-eyed and tranquildriver, seemed suddenly to awaken, to become animated and fleet.The horse ceased to ruminate on his state, his air of reflectionvanished. He became intent upon his aged legs and spread them inquaint and ridiculous devices for speed. The driver, his eyesshining, sat critically in his seat. He watched each motion of thisrattling machine down before him. He resembled an engineer. He usedthe whip with judgment and deliberation as the engineer would haveused coal or oil. The horse clacked swiftly upon the macadam, thewheels hummed, the body of the vehicle wheezed and groaned.
Stimson, in the rear seat, was erect in that impassive attitudethat comes sometimes to the furious man when he is obliged to leavethe battle to others. Frequently, however, the tempest in hisbreast came to his face and he howled—
"Go it—go it—you're gaining; pound 'im! Thump thelife out of 'im; hit 'im hard, you fool." His hand grasped the rodthat supported the carriage top, and it was clenched so that thenails were faintly blue.
Ahead, that other carriage had been flying with speed, as fromrealization of the menace in the rear. It bowled away rapidly,drawn by the eager spirit of a young and modern horse. Stimsoncould see the buggy-top bobbing, bobbing. That little pane, like aneye, was a derision to him. Once he leaned forward and bawled angrysentences. He began to feel impotent; his whole expedition was atottering of an old man upon a trail of birds. A sense of age madehim choke again with wrath. That other vehicle, that was youth,with youth's pace; it was swift-flying with the hope of dreams. Hebegan to comprehend those two children ahead of him, and he knew asudden and strange awe, because he understood the power of theiryoung blood, the power to fly strongly into the future and feel andhope again, even at that time when his bones must be laid in theearth. The dust rose easily from the hot road and stifled thenostrils of Stimson.
The highway vanished far away in a point with a suggestion ofintolerable length. The other vehicle was becoming so small thatStimson could no longer see the derisive eye.
At last the hackman drew rein to his horse and turned to look atStimson.
"No use, I guess," he said.
Stimson made a gesture of acquiescence, rage, despair. As thehackman turned his dripping horse about, Stimson sank back with theastonishment and grief of a man who has been defied by theuniverse. He had been in a great perspiration, and now his baldhead felt cool and uncomfortable. He put up his hand with a suddenrecollection that he had forgotten his hat.
At last he made a gesture. It meant that at any rate he was notresponsible.
The tiny old lady in the black dress and curious little blackbonnet had at first seemed alarmed at the sound made by her feetupon the stone pavements. But later she forgot about it, for shesuddenly came into the tempest of the Sixth Avenue shoppingdistrict, where from the streams of people and vehicles went up aroar like that from headlong mountain torrents.
She seemed then like a chip that catches, recoils, turns andwheels, a reluctant thing in the clutch of the impetuous river. Shehesitated, faltered, debated with herself. Frequently she seemedabout to address people; then of a sudden she would evidently loseher courage. Meanwhile the torrent jostled her, swung her this andthat way.
At last, however, she saw two young women gazing in at ashop-window. They were well-dressed girls; they wore gowns withenormous sleeves that made them look like full-rigged ships withall sails set. They seemed to have plenty of time; they leisurelyscanned the goods in the window. Other people had made the tiny oldwoman much afraid because obviously they were speeding to keep suchtremendously important engagements. She went close to the girls andpeered in at the same window. She watched them furtively for atime. Then finally she said—
"Excuse me!"
The girls looked down at this old face with its two large eyesturned towards them.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can get any work?"
For an instant the two girls stared. Then they seemed about toexchange a smile, but, at the last moment, they checked it. Thetiny old lady's eyes were upon them. She was quaintly serious,silently expectant. She made one marvel that in that face thewrinkles showed no trace of experience, knowledge; they were simplylittle, soft, innocent creases. As for her glance, it had thetrustfulness of ignorance and the candour of babyhood.
"I want to get something to do, because I need the money," shecontinued since, in their astonishment, they had not replied to herfirst question. "Of course I'm not strong and I couldn't do verymuch, but I can sew well; and in a house where there was a goodmany men folks, I could do all the mending. Do you know any placewhere they would like me to come?"
The young women did then exchange a smile, but it was a subtletender smile, the edge of personal grief.
"Well, no, madame," hesitatingly said one of them at last; "Idon't think I know any one."
A shade passed over the tiny old lady's face, a shadow of thewing of disappointment.
"Don't you?" she said, with a little struggle to be brave, inher voice.
Then the girl hastily continued—"But if you will give meyour address, I may find some one, and if I do, I will surely letyou know of it."
The tiny old lady dictated her address, bending over to watchthe girl write on a visiting card with a little silver pencil. Thenshe said—
"I thank you very much." She bowed to them, smiling, and went ondown the avenue.
As for the two girls, they walked to the curb and watched thisaged figure, small and frail, in its black gown and curious blackbonnet. At last, the crowd, the innumerable wagons, interminglingand changing with uproar and riot, suddenly engulfed it.
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