by Jack London
furnishings to disorder it. The plaster, discolored by the steam
of many wash-days, was crisscrossed with cracks from the big
earthquake of the previous spring. The floor was ridged,
wide-cracked, and uneven, and in front of the stove it was worn
through and repaired with a five-gallon oil-can hammered flat and
double. A sink, a dirty roller-towel, several chairs, and a
wooden table completed the picture.
An apple-core crunched under her foot as she drew a chair to the
table. On the frayed oilcloth, a supper waited. She attempted the
cold beans, thick with grease, but gave them up, and buttered a
slice of bread.
The rickety house shook to a heavy, prideless tread, and through
the inner door came Sarah, middle-aged, lop-breasted,
hair-tousled, her face lined with care and fat petulance.
"Huh, it's you," she grunted a greeting. "I just couldn't keep
things warm. Such a day! I near died of the heat. An' little
Henry cut his lip awful. The doctor had to put four stitches in
it."
Sarah came over and stood mountainously by the table.
"What's the matter with them beans?" she challenged.
"Nothing, only . . ." Saxon caught her breath and avoided the
threatened outburst. "Only I'm not hungry. It's been so hot all
day. It was terrible in the laundry."
Recklessly she took a mouthful of the cold tea that had been
steeped so long that it was like acid in her mouth, and
recklessly, under the eye of her sister-in-law, she swallowed it
and the rest of the cupful. She wiped her mouth on her
handkerchief and got up.
"I guess I'll go to bed."
"Wonder you ain't out to a dance," Sarah sniffed. "Funny, ain't
it, you come home so dead tired every night, an' yet any night in
the week you can get out an' dance unearthly hours."
Saxon started to speak, suppressed herself with tightened lips,
then lost control and blazed out. "Wasn't you ever young?"
Without waiting for reply, she turned to her bedroom, which
opened directly off the kitchen. It was a small room, eight by
twelve, and the earthquake had left its marks upon the plaster. A
bed and chair of cheap pine and a very ancient chest of drawers
constituted the furniture. Saxon had known this chest of drawers
all her life. The vision of it was woven into her earliest
recollections. She knew it had crossed the plains with her people
in a prairie schooner. It was of solid mahogany. One end was
cracked and dented from the capsize of the wagon in Rock Canyon.
A bullet-hole, plugged, in the face of the top drawer, told of
the fight with the Indians at Little Meadow. Of these happenings
her mother had told her; also had she told that the chest had
come with the family originally from England in a day even
earlier than the day on which George Washington was born.
Above the chest of drawers, on the wall, hung a small
looking-glass. Thrust under the molding were photographs of young
men and women, and of picnic groups wherein the young men, with
hats rakishly on the backs of their heads, encircled the girls
with their arms. Farther along on the wall were a colored
calendar and numerous colored advertisements and sketches torn
out of magazines. Most of these sketches were of horses. From the
gas-fixture hung a tangled bunch of well-scribbled dance
programs.
Saxon started to take off her hat, but suddenly sat down on the
bed. She sobbed softly, with considered repression, but the
weak-latched door swung noiselessly open, and she was startled by
her sister-in-law's voice.
"NOW what's the matter with you? If you didn't like them beans--"
"No, no," Saxon explained hurriedly. "I'm just tired, that's all,
and my feet hurt. I wasn't hungry, Sarah. I'm just beat out."
"If you took care of this house," came the retort, "an' cooked
an' baked, an' washed, an' put up with what I put up, you'd have
something to be beat out about. You've got a snap, you have. But
just wait." Sarah broke off to cackle gloatingly. "Just wait,
that's all, an' you'll be fool enough to get married some day,
like me, an' then you'll get yours--an' it'll be brats, an'
brats, an' brats, an' no more dancin', an' silk stockin's, an'
three pairs of shoes at one time. You've got a cinch-nobody to
think of but your own precious self--an' a lot of young hoodlums
makin' eyes at you an' tellin' you how beautiful your eyes are.
Huh! Some fine day you'll tie up to one of 'em, an' then, mebbe,
on occasion, you'll wear black eyes for a change."
"Don't say that, Sarah," Saxon protested. "My brother never laid
hands on you. You know that."
"No more he didn't. He never had the gumption. Just the same,
he's better stock than that tough crowd you run with, if he can't
make a livin' an' keep his wife in three pairs of shoes. Just the
same he's oodles better'n your bunch of hoodlums that no decent
woman'd wipe her one pair of shoes on. How you've missed trouble
this long is beyond me. Mebbe the younger generation is wiser in
such thins--I don't know. But I do know that a young woman that
has three pairs of shoes ain't thinkin' of anything but her own
enjoyment, an' she's goin' to get hers, I can tell her that much.
When I was a girl there wasn't such doin's. My mother'd taken the
hide off me if I done the things you do. An' she was right, just
as everything in the world is wrong now. Look at your brother,
a-runnin' around to socialist meetin's, an' chewin' hot air, an'
diggin' up extra strike dues to the union that means so much
bread out of the mouths of his children, instead of makin' good
with his bosses. Why, the dues he pays would keep me in seventeen
pairs of shoes if I was nannygoat enough to want 'em. Some day,
mark my words, he'll get his time, an' then what'll we do?
What'll I do, with five mouths to feed an' nothin' comin' in?"
She stopped, out of breath but seething with the tirade yet to
come.
"Oh, Sarah, please won't you shut the door?" Saxon pleaded.
The door slammed violently, and Saxon, ere she fell to crying
again, could hear her sister-in-law lumbering about the kitchen
and talking loudly to herself.
CHAPTER II
Each bought her own ticket at the entrance to Weasel Park. And
each, as she laid her half-dollar down, was distinctly aware of
how many pieces of fancy starch were represented by the coin. It
was too early for the crowd, but bricklayers and their families,
laden with huge lunch-baskets and armfuls of babies, were already
going in--a healthy, husky race of workmen, well-paid and
robustly fed. And with them, here and there, undisguised by their
decent American clothing, smaller in bulk and stature, weazened
not alone by age but by the pinch of lean years and early
hardship, were grandfathers and mothers who had patently first
seen the light of day on old Irish soil. Their faces showed
content and pride as they limped along with this lusty progeny of
theirs that had fed on better food.<
br />
Not with these did Mary and Saxon belong. They knew them not, had
no acquaintances among them. It did not matter whether the
festival were Irish, German, or Slavonian; whether the picnic was
the Bricklayers', the Brewers', or the Butchers'. They, the
girls, were of the dancing crowd that swelled by a certain
constant percentage the gate receipts of all the picnics.
They strolled about among the booths where peanuts were grinding
and popcorn was roasting in preparation for the day, and went on
and inspected the dance floor of the pavilion. Saxon, clinging to
an imaginary partner, essayed a few steps of the dip-waltz. Mary
clapped her hands.
"My!" she cried. "You're just swell! An' them stockin's is
peaches."
Saxon smiled with appreciation, pointed out her foot,
velvet-slippered with high Cuban heels, and slightly lifted the
tight black skirt, exposing a trim ankle and delicate swell of
calf, the white flesh gleaming through the thinnest and flimsiest
of fifty-cent black silk stockings. She was slender, not tall,
yet the due round lines of womanhood were hers. On her white
shirtwaist was a pleated jabot of cheap lace, caught with a large
novelty pin of imitation coral. Over the shirtwaist was a natty
jacket, elbow-sleeved, and to the elbows she wore gloves of
imitation suede. The one essentially natural touch about her
appearance was the few curls, strangers to curling-irons, that
escaped from under the little naughty hat of black velvet pulled
low over the eyes.
Mary's dark eyes flashed with joy at the sight, and with a swift
little run she caught the other girl in her arms and kissed her
in a breast-crushing embrace. She released her, blushing at her
own extravagance.
"You look good to me," she cried, in extenuation. "If I was a man
I couldn't keep my hands off you. I'd eat you, I sure would."
They went out of the pavilion hand in hand, and on through the
sunshine they strolled, swinging hands gaily, reacting
exuberantly from the week of deadening toil. They hung over the
railing of the bear-pit, shivering at the huge and lonely
denizen, and passed quickly on to ten minutes of laughter at the
monkey cage. Crossing the grounds, they looked down into the
little race track on the bed of a natural amphitheater where the
early afternoon games were to take place. After that they
explored the woods, threaded by countless paths, ever opening out
in new surprises of green-painted rustic tables and benches in
leafy nooks, many of which were already pre-empted by family
parties. On a grassy slope, tree-surrounded, they spread a
newspaper and sat down on the short grass already tawny-dry under
the California sun. Half were they minded to do this because of
the grateful indolence after six days of insistent motion, half
in conservation for the hours of dancing to come.
"Bert Wanhope'll be sure to come," Mary chattered. "An' he said
he was going to bring Billy Roberts--'Big Bill,' all the fellows
call him. He's just a big boy, but he's awfully tough. He's a
prizefighter, an' all the girls run after him. I'm afraid of him.
He ain't quick in talkin'. He's more like that big bear we saw.
Brr-rf! Brr-rf!--bite your head off, just like that. He ain't
really a prize-fighter. He's a teamster--belongs to the union.
Drives for Coberly and Morrison. But sometimes he fights in the
clubs. Most of the fellows are scared of him. He's got a bad
temper, an' he'd just as soon hit a fellow as eat, just like
that. You won't like him, but he's a swell dancer. He's heavy,
you know, an' he just slides and glides around. You wanta have a
dance with'm anyway. He's a good spender, too. Never pinches. But
my!--he's got one temper."
The talk wandered on, a monologue on Mary's part, that centered
always on Bert Wanhope.
"You and he are pretty thick," Saxon ventured.
"I'd marry'm to-morrow," Mary flashed out impulsively. Then her
face went bleakly forlorn, hard almost in its helpless pathos.
"Only, he never asks me. He's . . ." Her pause was broken by sudden
passion. "You watch out for him, Saxon, if he ever comes foolin'
around you. He's no good. Just the same, I'd marry him to-morrow.
He'll never get me any other way." Her mouth opened, but instead
of speaking she drew a long sigh. "It's a funny world, ain't it?"
she added. "More like a scream. And all the stars are worlds,
too. I wonder where God hides. Bert Wanhope says there ain't no
God. But he's just terrible. He says the most terrible things. I
believe in God. Don't you? What do you think about God, Saxon?"
Saxon shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
"But if we do wrong we get ours, don't we?" Mary persisted.
"That's what they all say, except Bert. He says he don't care
what he does, he'll never get his, because when he dies he's
dead, an' when he's dead he'd like to see any one put anything
across on him that'd wake him up. Ain't he terrible, though? But
it's all so funny. Sometimes I get scared when I think God's
keepin' an eye on me all the time. Do you think he knows what I'm
sayin' now? What do you think he looks like, anyway?"
"I don't know," Saxon answered. "He's just a funny proposition."
"Oh!" the other gasped.
"He IS, just the same, from what all people say of him," Saxon
went on stoutly. "My brother thinks he looks like Abraham
Lincoln. Sarah thinks he has whiskers."
"An' I never think of him with his hair parted," Mary confessed,
daring the thought and shivering with apprehension. "He just
couldn't have his hair parted. THAT'D be funny."
"You know that little, wrinkly Mexican that sells wire puzzles?"
Saxon queried. "Well, God somehow always reminds me of him."
Mary laughed outright.
"Now that IS funny. I never thought of him like that How do you
make it out?"
"Well, just like the little Mexican, he seems to spend his time
peddling puzzles. He passes a puzzle out to everybody, and they
spend all their lives tryin' to work it out They all get stuck. I
can't work mine out. I don't know where to start. And look at the
puzzle he passed Sarah. And she's part of Tom's puzzle, and she
only makes his worse. And they all, an' everybody I know--you,
too--are part of my puzzle."
"Mebbe the puzzles is all right," Mary considered. "But God don't
look like that yellow little Greaser. THAT I won't fall for. God
don't look like anybody. Don't you remember on the wall at the
Salvation Army it says 'God is a spirit'?"
"That's another one of his puzzles, I guess, because nobody knows
what a spirit looks like."
"That's right, too." Mary shuddered with reminiscent fear.
"Whenever I try to think of God as a spirit, I can see Hen Miller
all wrapped up in a sheet an' runnin' us girls. We didn't know,
an' it scared the life out of us. Little Maggie Murphy fainted
dead away, and Beatrice Peralta fell an' scratched her face
horrible. When I think of
a spirit all I can see is a white sheet
runnin' in the dark. Just the same, God don't look like a
Mexican, an' he don't wear his hair parted."
A strain of music from the dancing pavilion brought both girls
scrambling to their feet.
"We can get a couple of dances in before we eat," Mary proposed.
"An' then it'll be afternoon an' all the fellows 'll be here.
Most of them are pinchers--that's why they don't come early, so
as to get out of taking the girls to dinner. But Bert's free with
his money, an' so is Billy. If we can beat the other girls to it,
they'll take us to the restaurant. Come on, hurry, Saxon."
There were few couples on the floor when they arrived at the
pavilion, and the two girls essayed the first waltz together.
"There's Bert now," Saxon whispered, as they came around the
second time.
"Don't take any notice of them," Mary whispered back. "We'll just
keep on goin'. They needn't think we're chasin' after them."
But Saxon noted the heightened color in the other's cheek, and
felt her quicker breathing.
"Did you see that other one?" Mary asked, as she backed Saxon in
a long slide across the far end of the pavilion. "That was Billy
Roberts. Bert said he'd come. He'll take you to dinner, and
Bert'll take me. It's goin' to be a swell day, you'll see. My! I
only wish the music'll hold out till we can get back to the other
end."
Down the floor they danced, on man-trapping and dinner-getting
intent, two fresh young things that undeniably danced well and
that were delightfully surprised when the music stranded them
perilously near to their desire.
Bert and Mary addressed each other by their given names, but to
Saxon Bert was "Mr. Wanhope," though he called her by her first
name. The only introduction was of Saxon and Billy Roberts. Mary
carried it off with a flurry of nervous carelessness.
"Mr. Robert--Miss Brown. She's my best friend. Her first name's
Saxon. Ain't it a scream of a name?"
"Sounds good to me," Billy retorted, hat off and hand extended.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Brown."
As their hands clasped and she felt the teamster callouses on his
palm, her quick eyes saw a score of things. About all that he saw
was her eyes, and then it was with a vague impression that they
were blue. Not till later in the day did he realize that they
were gray. She, on the contrary, saw his eyes as they really
were--deep blue, wide, and handsome in a sullen-boyish way. She
saw that they were straight-looking, and she liked them, as she
had liked the glimpse she had caught of his hand, and as she
liked the contact of his hand itself. Then, too, but not sharply,
she had perceived the short, square-set nose, the rosiness of
cheek, and the firm, short upper lip, ere delight centered her
flash of gaze on the well-modeled, large clean mouth where red
lips smiled clear of the white, enviable teeth. A BOY, A GREAT
BIG MAN-BOY, was her thought; and, as they smiled at each other
and their hands slipped apart, she was startled by a glimpse of
his hair--short and crisp and sandy, hinting almost of palest
gold save that it was too flaxen to hint of gold at all.
So blond was he that she was reminded of stage-types she had
seen, such as Ole Olson and Yon Yonson; but there resemblance
ceased. It was a matter of color only, for the eyes were
dark-lashed and -browed, and were cloudy with temperament rather
than staring a child-gaze of wonder, and the suit of smooth brown
cloth had been made by a tailor. Saxon appraised the suit on the
instant, and her secret judgment was NOT A CENT LESS THAN FIFTY
DOLLARS. Further, he had none of the awkwardness of the
Scandinavian immigrant. On the contrary, he was one of those rare
individuals that radiate muscular grace through the ungraceful
man-garments of civilization. Every movement was supple, slow,