by Frank Norris
“Yaing g’labi
Leyo n kunze
Yai ukufa.”
Then at last the tension broke. The thing was more than Mr. Otto Marks of Toledo, Ohio, was made to bear. All at once his nerves crisped and recoiled like the broken ends of an overstrained harp string, and he leaped into the air, suddenly seized with hysteria, shrieking and laughing and banging his fists upon the keys.
With the cessation of the music the spell was broken, the droning chant stopped in a medley of discords, and the dancing feet grew still.
“Go on, go on,” screamed West, “go on playing.” But Otto neither heeded nor heard, for he was out of his head with terror and excitement, and was dancing upon the wagon, shrieking out snatches of Gospel hymns. He was waving his fists above his head. His eyes were as the eyes of a fish, and he was bleeding at the nose.
An assegai struck him all at once full on the face, and he spun about twice, gripping at the air, and then went over, sideways upon the keyboard of the organ, his blood splashing the dazzling white of the celluloid keys.
They ran in and overwhelmed the wagon like an ocean bursting a dyke, and the little voorlooper found his death amidst the panic-stricken oxen.
West tried to shoot himself underneath the wagon but was dragged out by one arm and a leg, with his chin shot away.
And what was done with Mr. West?
“Maghwheena!” exclaimed Ingodusi, as he finished the tale. “He was an Umtagati, a crawling snake. Him we crucified upon a telegraph pole — by the arms only.” — San Francisco Wave, April 25, 1896.
BANDY CALLAGHAN’S GIRL
A SHORT STORY FROM THE WAVE OF APRIL 18, 1896.
This story is about a certain street-car conductor named Bandy Callaghan. It all happened because of a Chinaman, who once rode on Bandy’s car and in some way managed to cheat him out of five dollars. Bandy had to make good the amount at the “Old Man’s” office, but he remembered that his Chinaman was marked with leprosy in a peculiar way, and so filled a piece of rubber hose with sand and hid it in the lamp-box against the possibility of meeting him again.
Some time after this Bandy got the receiver of his bell-punch plugged with punch-wads, and took it down to a gunsmith’s on Kearny Street not far from the old Plaza to have it cleaned. As he could not call for it until he was off duty, about midnight, he arranged to have the gunsmith leave it at a neighboring saloon. When it was finished Bandy called for it there and started home, taking a short cut through Chinatown. According to his system of reckoning it was 12:27, for, if you will notice, a conductor always tells you the time with great exactness as to the minutes.
On the corner of Washington and Dupont, under a lamp-post, he caromed against a Chinese with traces of leprosy across his nose and eyes like a pair of spectacles. Bandy grabbed him at once by the slack of his blouse.
“Gi’ me my five dollars,” he said, breathing through his nose. “I knew I’d find you again some day.”
The Chinaman wrenched back from him and his lip drew tight across his teeth.
“Wha’s maar ‘you?” he snarled. “I no sabe you. Wha’s you want, you?”
“I want my five dollars,” answered Bandy, taking a fresh hold, “an’ I want it quick.”
“Wha’s maar ‘you?” repeated the other angrily, “I no sabe you fi’ dollar. Wha’s maar ‘you?” and he called Bandy a bad name which is the first English expression that a Chinaman learns. Bandy had his arm crooked to strike, when the coolie slipped away from him like a lizard and fled up Dupont Street toward Jackson; Bandy reached after him, missed him, and then gave chase.
Now, it is not good to try to run down a Chinaman in Chinatown at night, and none but a detective who has made the quarter a study should ever attempt it. In the first place you are not likely to catch your man, and in the second you are very likely to get into trouble. Bandy, because he did not know the rules of the game in Chinatown and because he was very close to the thief and because he was bent upon getting back his five dollars, closed in upon the coolie’s tracks, followed around the corner of Jackson Street, and as he dodged down a miserable alley a few doors above Dupont, turned in after him, scarcely three yards behind.
Bandy’s man dived into a door that looked like the entrance to a tan-room and slammed it behind him, but Bandy’s foot was already between the door and the jamb, he flung the door open again and continued the pursuit down the corridor that ended at the head of a long flight of narrow stairs leading down into inky obscurity. It seemed like wilful self-destruction to go on now, but five dollars are five dollars when you get them by hourly installments of twenty-two cents, and besides Bandy was so close to the fleeing coolie that he thought to overtake him at every step.
More stairways and galleries, passageways so low that Bandy had to bow his head to proceed, so narrow that at times he was obliged to advance sideways. Then he paused, panting for breath in the fetid reek of the underground atmosphere. He had lost his coolie, and now was lost himself.
Then all in a moment he grew thoroughly frightened and desperate; he plunged back through the maze of passages that were like tunnels in a mine, with his arms outstretched and with the readiness to fight a death-fight with any one who opposed him. In the darkness he stumbled down a pair of steps and fell against a green-painted door, with an iron-latticed hole near its top. The door was unfastened, and yielded as he struck it. He pitched forward into a very small and dimly lighted room, but sprang up in an instant looking about, his teeth and fists shut tight.
The room was a little larger than an ocean-liner’s stateroom, and like a stateroom was surrounded on three sides by tiers of bunks. Besides these, there were two mattresses on the floor, and on a very low teak-wood table in the middle of the room were an American student’s lamp, with a green shade, and a tray full of pipes. The whole place was full of a pungent blue haze of smoke. There were three Chinamen asleep in as many of the bunks, and on one of the mattresses a fourth was “coiled,” half stupefied and lazily smoking. Bandy had stumbled into an opium den in full blast.
The sleepers awoke and bundled themselves out upon the floor, and he on the mattress reached out for the lamp. Bandy kicked his hand away and drew the lamp toward him. They all crowded together in one corner, blinking and chattering; one of them cried out to him and said: “You no take-um lock-up; find-um boss, take-um boss, we no sabe, you go find boss, all same take-um boss.”
Bandy was puzzled; they evidently thought that this was a raid, and that he was a policeman, but why? Ah! exactly, he knew now; his conductor’s uniform with its blue cloth and brass buttons; he was thinking very fast and felt that he must act on every thought; he could not afford to hesitate, letting them have time to discover their mistake, he was sure that he was master of the situation and his fear and excitement began to subside.
“Here you,” he said, addressing the one that spoke, “I want you, come outside into the street with me, go on first and I’ll follow you.” He had thought by this means to regain the street without letting them know that he was lost and was about to follow the coolie, who had gone out before him, when he stopped short with an exclamation.
His first thought had been that it was another Chinaman, too far gone to wake up with the others. His next, (induced by the sight of a quantity of black hair tumbled about upon the pillow) was that a Chinese woman had found her way to the den and lay there on the mattress drugged and inert. But now the figure stirred, breathed heavily, and threw a bare arm free of the blankets. Bandy shrank back with an oath as he saw that the arm was white.
The horror and cruelty of the thing for a moment turned him cold, and then all his excitement came over him again like a hot wave. He was persuaded the coolies were afraid of him. “Here’s what I wanted,” he cried; “come back here. This girl’s got to go out with me.”
They were silent for a moment and then they all rushed together, chattering angrily and stood between him and the door. Without knowing how it had been done, Bandy found that he had wra
pped the girl in the blankets. Now he stood and faced them, with one arm supporting her as she leaned limply against him.
Bandy was a young man of limited education and highly colored imagination, apt to take things that happened to him as though they were the scenes of a drama in which he was at once the actor, the author, and the audience. Through all his hurry and excitement he found occasion to appreciate the drama of the present situation and felt heroic at once. It stood him in good stead. He was unwilling to back down now lest it should destroy the effect. With a quickness of eye that was born of the occasion he saw one of the coolies groping toward something on the ground near his feet. Looking down he saw that it was his nickel-plated bell-punch, fallen from his pocket during the moment he was upon the floor, at the same time he knew that the coolie had mistaken it for something else; he did not undeceive him but snatched it up and aimed it at them, shouting:
“It’s a forty-eight and it’s loaded to the muzzle, damn you all, stand out of the way.” They fell back before him and he blundered out into the narrow passage carrying the girl with him.
Behind him he heard the sound of a shrill whistle, and shriller voices calling to each other up and down the tortuous stairways. He went on through the foul murk in a frenzy of excitement speaking all his thoughts aloud, as was his custom when aroused, ignorant of where he was going, and possessed of only one desire — to get above ground again and breathe the clear night air.
And then all his courage and resolution suddenly dwindled away and left him cold and shaking with fear. He knew that he was only a car conductor after all, and had neither the blind recklessness of the tough nor the reasoned obstinacy of the thoroughbred. With every minute of continued suspense he began to think less of the girl and more of himself. The idea of being set upon by Chinamen in that narrow tunnel, like a rat in its hole, filled him with terror, and he raised his voice in a quavering shout for help. He paused a moment and listened; a rising clamor in the gloom behind him prolonged the echo of his cry, while in front of him he heard the noise of feet descending a flight of invisible stairs. It seemed as though he were trapped. The strain of waiting there in the dark for the blow to fall was more than he was made to bear, so letting the girl slip from his grasp, he started forward with another shout and ran with outstretched arms against the blue-coated figure of a policeman upon the stairs in front of him.
At sight of the white face and at sound of the bass voice growling, “What was the matter down here this time,” Bandy’s nerves snapped like a tense harp string, and he burst into weak tears, partly of pure nervousness, partly of joy at his release, partly of shame at his own cowardice, and partly because he had not been able to sustain the heroic role he had assumed.
Five minutes later he was much calmer, and in company with the girl, who was still unconscious, was being driven to the precinct station house in the patrol wagon.
* * *
Bandy had a “girl” whose name was Miss McCleaverty, and who ran the soda water fountain in a candy store on Polk Street. Miss McCleaverty wore very blonde hair, and imitation alligator skin belts. She exhaled alternate odors of sachet and chocolate caramels, and she knew how to play “My Lady’s Bower” and “The Liberty Bell March” on the piano. Bandy thought her radiantly beautiful and divinely gifted.
The next time that Bandy went to see Miss McCleaverty, he told her all about it and was puzzled at her lack of enthusiasm and interest in the matter. She did not seem to care much about the thrilling details, and spoke carelessly of the girl as “this woman,” which made him wince. But he finally got her promise to go with him and see the girl at the “Home.”
At the “Home” it was quite different, however. As soon as she saw the forlorn little creature, Miss McCleaverty warmed toward her in a way that filled Bandy’s simple heart with joy. She sat with her arm around her a long time, got her to talk a little, and left her with the assurance that she would come and see her again as soon as she could.
By the time Bandy saw Miss McCleaverty again she had been out to the “Home” twice, and had found out more about the Girl. “I guess she’s Mexican-Spanish,” she said to Bandy, “‘n it ain’t altogether her fault that she’s what she is; of course she won’t tell me everything, but she’s got people in San Diego; ‘n there was a fellow — I don’t know— ‘n they ran away together, ‘n he didn’t do right by her. He left her after awhile, ‘n then, well, she met a woman, ‘n you know she’s awfully young ‘n ain’t onto herself a little bit, ‘n the woman did worse by her than the fellow, ‘n she just went all to pieces. But you just bet I’m going to stand right by her ‘n get her back to her folks, all right, all right.”
“You didn’t seem to be stuck on her much at first,” observed Bandy.
“Well, I know,” assented Miss McCleaverty, vaguely. “But she ain’t got a friend in the whole city, ‘n she ain’t a bit bad, just kinda weak ‘n inexperienced, you know. She’s just awfully sorry about everything, ‘n I mean to help her get set straight again. I tell you what,” she went on, “that Home ain’t a very nice place for her, b’cause she ain’t one of that kind. My aunt was in the store yesterday, ‘n I told her all about it, ‘n she felt just as I did. She’s going to let her come to stay with her until we get word from her folks. She lives way out on Geary Street, you know; she’s all alone, ‘n it’s kinda lonesome like, anyhow.”
“Well, say, that’s pretty nice,” said Bandy, “and it’s just awfully good of you. Say, did she ever say anything about me?”
“No,” answered Miss McCleaverty. “I guess she’s got too many other things to think about.”
“She’s mighty pretty, don’t you think?”
Miss McCleaverty shifted her gum to the other side of her mouth. “I wouldn’t call her pretty at all,” she responded.
Some time after this Bandy awoke to the fact that he had been visiting at the house on Geary Street as often as he could, and that after one of these visits he spent most of his time in looking forward to the next one. There was little enough that he had in common with the Girl, and heaven knows what they talked about. He thought that he had liked Miss McCleaverty more than any one else, but now he began to see that he had never known what it really meant to care for some one.
“This must be what it is,” he said, “when people fall in love.”
He felt mortified, too, over the fact that he was unfaithful to Miss McCleaverty, who had been so kind to him.
“She ain’t done anything,” he observed, to himself, “but I just can’t help it.”
It came to be tacitly felt between himself and the Girl that Miss McCleaverty should know nothing of his visits, and this mutual understanding seemed in a way to draw them closer together. He began to perceive as well that the Girl was commencing to care for him, but this troubled him as much as it rejoiced him, for he felt that they were not fated for each other, and that no good could come of it all. Meanwhile Miss McCleaverty saw nothing, but continued to do all that she could for her. After a while she succeeded in getting her to tell her all about her parents and had written to them at San Diego; but Bandy could scarcely bear to look Miss McCleaverty in the face.
How the Girl had come into the opium den underneath the tan-shop in St. Louis Place Bandy never knew. It was more than likely she did not know herself, though he was sure she had not been there often. They never spoke of that night between themselves, and Bandy often wondered if she knew what part he had taken in the business.
The house, which was the Girl’s temporary home, was far out on Geary Street, and close under Lone Mountain. Late one afternoon, when their acquaintance was three weeks old, Bandy went out there again as he had done so many times already. As he rang the bell, a woman in the adjoining house, who was watering some geraniums at her open window, called to him, saying:
“Mrs. Flint (this was Miss McCleaverty’s aunt) told me as how I was to tell you if you called, that she had gone out and wouldn’t be home till late this evening, but the young lady’s at ho
me; I guess you can walk right in.”
The house was a small one and all on one floor, and Bandy shut the front door sharply behind him, so that the noise might announce his coming. He went into the little front sitting-room and moved about uncertainly, waiting till the Girl should come in. The house was so small that she could not help hearing him. He waited some few minutes, touching the keys of the cheap piano and whistling softly. Then, after a few moments’ hesitation, he returned to the entry and called. There was no answer, and he turned back to the sitting-room, assured that she was not in the house. But the next moment he was persuaded of the improbability of this; she never went out under any circumstances, having an unreasonable dread of being seen abroad. Yet in the bare possibility of her having stirred out of doors for once, he sat down and waited for upwards of half an hour.
At the end of this time he jumped up impatiently; it was growing dark, and he was positive she would not have stayed out so long, even if she had gone out at all.
“Can’t be,” he muttered; “she must be at home.” For a second time he went out into the hall and called loud and long, with only latent echoes for response. Her room was at the end of the hall and he could see her door from where he stood. He went up to it and knocked, and then, receiving no answer, tried the knob. The door was locked. “This is getting queerer and queerer,” he said, but he was uneasy as he spoke the words. As he turned away perplexed and hesitating, the noise of running water caught his ear; it came from within the room, and was as the noise of water running from the faucet of a stationary wash-stand. Not knowing what to think, he took a couple of turns up and down the hallway, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his eyebrows knotted in a puzzled frown. The noise of the trickling stream followed him back and forth. It was the only sound throughout the house. “It sounds leery,” he said to himself.
Returning to the door, he pulled out his bunch of keys from his pocket and tried one of them in the lock, and drew back in astonishment. The key was on the inside.