IV
THE FIGHT
The next day my friend Mrs. Gray waylaid father, and told him ferventlyshe didn't want me teachin' her Sandy none of my fool tricks.
And the old gentleman read me the riot act trimmed me to a peak, by wordof mouth. There's where me and righteous conduct near parted company.I'm afraid I sassed the old man a little. I was awful sore, you know.Anyway, it wound up unpleasant. Father wouldn't listen to my side, asusual, and I'll leave it to any man that's tried to do the right thingand had it explode with him to realize how I felt. Boys have feelings.There's lots of folk don't believe it, but I've studied boys to acertain extent, and I'm willing to bet small sums they're almost likepersons in that respect.
I got ugly under the pressure. Then I beat the head near off Anker'sslimy little whelp, as the only relief in sight. That was dead wrong. Hewas 'way smaller 'n me, and hadn't done nothing at the time to deserveit. I went on father's principle that although no immediate cause wasvisible, yet there was plenty in the past and future to lick him for, soI lammed his both eyes black, bunged up his nose, and sent him holleringhome. He met our schoolteacher on the way. Mr. Judson and I cometogether fairly regular, yet we liked each other. He was a square man,Samuel Judson, and he knew kids from thirty years' experience. He nevermade but one mistake with me, and he come out and begged my pardonbefore the whole school for that. Father sneered at his doing it--sayinga teacher ought to uphold discipline, and to beg a boy's pardon was justinviting all kinds of skulduggery. Howsomever, Sammy Judson won me bythat play. When he put the gad on me it was with the best of feelings onboth sides. I can see the old lad now, smiling a thin little smile, sortof sourcastic, yet real kind underneath, whilst he twiddled the switchin his hands.
"Just let me trim a certain amount of foolishness out of you, and you'llmake a fine man--a _fine_ man, William," he'd say. And perhaps you thinkthat small thin gentleman didn't know how to make a hickory bite! Hecould get every tender spot, by instinct.
Well, he met young Mr. Anker, as I was saying, and asked him what ailedhim. Algy explained the foul way I treated him, careful not to let thetale lose anything.
"Ah!" says Sammy, "and what was this for?"
"For nothing at all--not a thing!"
Sammy looks at him from under his shaggy eyebrows. "I've often longed tothrash you for that same reason," says he, and marches on.
But lovely Peter! Father handed me back my mistreating Algy withinterest on the investment. Pheeew! And talk! I was the most cowardlybrute in the country--to assault and batter a poor, nice, gentlemanlylittle boy--a great big hulking scoundrel like myself--why, it passedall crimes in history. Old Uncle Nero scratching the fiddle, while thefire-insurance companies tore their hair, was a public benefactorcompared to me.
That passed. I was only hindered, not stopped, in my reckless career ofVillage Pride. I'm a kind of determined cuss. But Fate sprung a stuffeddeck on me. I did a piece of reforming really worth doing, but it costme my home. Moreover, I was perfectly innocent of the intention. Don'tit beat the devil? To tell it longhand, the play come up like this:
We had a party in our town who deserved a statue in the Hall--Mary AnnMcCracken by name. She was a Holy Terror. Never before nor since have Iseen anything like Mary Ann. I reckon she had about sixty years to hercredit, and two hundred pounds to show for 'em. She ran a dairy up onthe hill, doing her own milking and delivering, with only onelong-suffering man to help out. I always remember that man walkingaround with one hand flying in the air, talking to himself, but whenMiss Mary Ann said in her bass voice, "Pete! You Pete!" "Yessum,yessum!" says Pete as polite as possible.
The old lady used to bend slowly toward you, as if taking aim with hernose, and she fired her remarks through and through you. She'd sprung aplank somewhere, and had a little list to the side, but not at allenough so she couldn't take care of her own business and any otherbody's that come her way. When she went by father's house she used toroar, "Hark, froom the toomb--a doooleful sound!" because she hatedeverything concerning father's church, from the cellar to thelightning-rod. One day she was talking to mother, that she happened tolike, snorting scornful, as was her custom, when father had the bad luckto appear on the scene.
"Adele Delatter," says Mary Ann, "what made you marry that man?"pointing a finger at father like a horse-pistol. "What made you marryhim, heh? heh? Don't you answer me. Hunh. He ain't got blood in hisveins at all; he turns decent vittels to vinegar. Hah. His mother's milkcurddled in his stummick." She humped up her back and shook both fists."He orter married _me_!" says she; "I'd 'a' fixed him! He'd ortermarried ME!" She b'iled over entirely and galloped for the gate. "I'dwring his cussed neck, if I stayed a minute longer!" she hollers. Whenshe got in the wagon she rumbled and "pah'd" and "humphed." Then shestuck her red face out and yelled, "Orter married me. _I'd_ give him allthe hell he needed! Pah, pish, yah! Git out o' here, Jacky hoss, beforeyou take to singin' hymns!"
She's the only human being I ever met that did just exactly what he,she, or it sweetly damned pleased to do. In that way, she's restful toremember. Most of us have got to copper, once in a while; but nothingabove, below, nor between ever made her hedge a mill.
Well, I was walking home from Sunday-school with Miss Hitty one Sunday,trying to get points on my new system, when who should we see bearin'down the street, all sails set and every gun loaded, but Miss Mary AnnMcCracken! The first blast she give us was:
"Ha, Mehitabel! Gallivantin' around with the boys, now that the men'sgive out, hey?"
Poor little Miss Hitty was flummexed fool-hardy. She stuttered out somekind of answer, instead of breakin' for home.
"Oh, my! my! my!" says Mary Ann, not paying the least attention to MissHitty's remarks. "My!" says she, "you'd ought to shuck them clothes.What you wastin' your time on boys fur? You was always hombly, Hitty;yes, but you're clean--I'll say that for you--you're _clean_. You standsome chance yet. You git married and shuck them clothes--_but shuck themclothes anyhow_!"
"'You git married and shuck them clothes'"]
You could have heard her to Willet's Mountain. And away she flew.
Miss Hitty cried all the way home. I did my best to comfort her, butMary Ann jabbed deep. She was child entirely when we reached her frontdoor, and she turned to me just like a child.
"_Must_ I wear different clothes, Will?" she says.
"Not a darn bit," says I. "Not for all the jealous, pop-eyed oldJezebels in ten townships."
She stood a moment, relieved, but still doubtful. "I don't know but whatI _should_," she said. Then I got in the argument that went every time,on every question, in those parts. "Why, Miss Hitty!" I says, "how youtalk! Think of the cost of it!"
She was so grateful she threw both arms and her parasol around my neckand kissed me then and there. "I won't!" she says, stamping her foot, "Iwon't! I won't!" and she swept into the house real spirited, like ahigh-strung mouse.
So it come I was Miss Hitty's champion.
Algy Anker happened to see Miss Hitty kiss me, and, of course, I heardfrom it. All the gay wags in town took a fly out of me. Even old Eli ledme mysteriously to one side and whispered he believed in helping youngfellers, so, when I was getting my outfit--he winked--why, he'd make abig reduction in tinware. I stood most of the gaffing pretty well,although I couldn't stop at any place without adding to the collectionof rural jokes, but at last one man stepped over the line that separatesa red-head from war.
There was always a crowd of country loafers around the tavern. A cityloafer ain't like a country loafer. The city loafer is a blackguard thatain't got a point in his favor, except that he's different from thecountry loafer.
One day I had to go by the tavern and I see Mick Murphy tilted back inhis chair, hat over eyes, thumbs in suspenders; big neck busting hisshirt open, big legs busting through the pants' legs, big feet bustingthrough the ends of his curved-up shoes, and a week's growth ofpig-bristles busting out of his red face. Mick was the bold bully of therough crowd--fellers from twenty to t
wenty-five. He worked till he gotmoney enough to buy whisky, then he got drunk and licked somebody.
The course of such lads is pretty regular. Mick was about a year fromrobbing hen-roosts. Next to hen-roosts comes holding up the lone farmer.Then the gang gets brash entirely, two or three are killed, and the restland in the pen. You wouldn't believe hardly what kiddish minds theseignorant, hulking brutes have sometimes, nor how, sometimes, they cometo the front, big, bigger than life-size. A painter wouldn't waste aminute putting down Mick Murphy as a thing of beauty. Little bits ofeyes, near hid with whisky bloat; big puffy lips, stained with tobaccojuice till they looked like the blood was coming through; dirty-handed,dirty-clothed, and dirty-mouthed--yah! And still--well, when I rememberhow that bulldozer went up a burning flight of stairs, tore a burningdoor off with them big dirty hands, and brought a little girl downthrough a wallow of flames, taking the coat off his back to wrap aroundher, and how the pride of the man come out when the mother stumbledtoward him, calling on God to reward him, and he straightened under thepain and said, "Ah, that's all right, ledy! 'F your ol' man'll stand adrink an' a new shirt we'll call it square." The son-of-a-gun never lefthis bed for six weeks--why, he was broiled all down one side--why, whenI remember that, I can't call up such a disgust for old Mick.
As I said, I see Mick Murphy leaning back in his chair at the tavern. Ofcourse, he had a word to say about me and Miss Hitty. Now, the baresight of Mick used to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck andgrowls boil inside of me. I just naturally disliked that man. So Isassed him plenty. He got mad and threatened to slap my face. I sassedhim more, and he _did_ slap my face. In one twenty-fifth of a second Icaught him on his rum-bouquet and sent him plumb off his feet--not badfor a sixteen-year-old, when you consider the other party was anaccomplished rough-houser. Yes, sir, he went right down, clean, morefrom the quickness than the stuff behind the blow, as I hadn't anywheresnear grew into my strength yet. The tavern crowd set up a roar, and thenjumped to interfere, for Mick he roared, too, and made to pull me apart.The onlookers wouldn't stand for it. They weren't such high-toned gents,but a contest between a leggy kid and a powerful man looked too far offthe level.
"You run," says one fellow to me. "We'll hold him." But hanged if I wasgoing to run. My thoughts was a mix, as usual in such cases--most of ithardly thinking at all, and the rest a kind of white-hot wish to damagesomething, and a desire to hustle away from there before I got hurt.Then, too, it had reached the limit about Miss Hitty--I sure wasn'tgoing to stand hearing her name mishandled by tavern loafers. Yet theprincipal cause for my staying was my anxiety to leave. That big,bellowing Irishman, dragging a half-dozen men to get at me, bloodstreaming down his face, and his expression far from agreeable, put acrimp in my soul, and don't you forget it. But I understood that thiswas my first man's-size proposition, and if I didn't take my lickinglike a man I never could properly respect myself afterward. So whilst mylegs were pleading, "Come, Willie, let's trot and see mother--it will bepleasanter," I raked my system for sand and stood pat.
I knew a trick or two about assaulting your fellow-man as well as Mick,when you come to that. Fighting is really as good an education forfighting as sparring is, and perhaps a little better. It ain't so much aquestion of how you make your props and parries, as how much damage youinflict upon the party of the second part.
"Let him come!" I says. "What you holding him for, 's if he was a ragin'lion or something? Let go of him!"
"You skip, you darn fool," says my first friend. "He'll eat you raw."
"Well, it will be my funeral," I says. "If you will see he don't put medown and gouge my eye out, I'll take him as he comes."
Gouging was a great trick with that gang,--I feared it more than deathitself.
Just at that minute old Eli drove up. "What in tarnation's this?" sayshe. When he found out, he tried to make me go home, but all this adviceI didn't want had made me more determined. I got crying mad. "Gol-dingit all to thunder!" says I, hopping up and down. "You see me fair playand turn him loose, Eli. I want one more swat at him,--just let me hithim once more, and I'll go home."
Eli was a tall, round-shouldered man, who looked like a cross between aprosperous minister and a busted lawyer. He had a consumptive cough, andan easy, smoothing way with his hands, always sort of apologizing.Several men had been led astray by these appearances, and picked aquarrel with Eli. Two weeks in bed was the average for making thatmistake.
He looked at me with his head sideways, pulling his chin whisker."Billy," says he, "I hev experienced them sentiments myself. It shell beas you say." He went to his wagon, and drew out a muzzle-loading pistolfrom under the seat. The pistol was loaded with buckshot, and fourfingers of powder to push it, as every one around knew. He walked up toMick and put the touch of a cold, gray, Yankee eye on him. "Young man,"he says, "I ain't for your clawin', chawin', kickin' style of conductin'a row, so I tell you this: you fight that boy fair, or I'll mix buckshotwith your whisky.--Turn your bullock loose!"
"'You fight that boy fair'"]
The men let go of him, and he come.
Fortunately, I remember every detail of that scrap, clear as crystal. Iled with my left, and Mick countered with his chin. A thunderstorm hitme in the left ear. Kerbang, kerswot. Scurry-scurry, biff-biff-biff.Somebody hit somewhere. Somebody with a pain in the neck. No time tofind out who it is. Zip, smash, rip; more pains; streaks of fire on thehorizon; must have run aground. Roar-roar-bump,--ah, bully for you,Billy! Slam him, Mick! Hit him again, sonny! You got him! Now you gothim! Aaaay-hooray!
Here we go, bumping over the ties. Right over the edge of thetrestle,--bing! C'm' off'n him, you big black whelp, aggh! le' go! Twisthis thumb! Kick the brute! Get up, boy! Roooor swishz.--Where in thunderdid the big black thing come from? Never mind. No time to stop. LovelyPeter! How she rolls! Who's sick?--Mick, probably. Lightning struck,that time.... Again ... Mmmmmmearrrrr ... dark ... dark. Rainingice-water! He's all right! Give him a little air! Somebody crying, "Idid the best I could by him, Eli; g-gu-gug-gol-darn him!" More light.Daybreak, and here I am again, on the ground, wet to the hide, thebucket they emptied on me alongside, and Eli holding my head up. Andwhat's the thing opposite, with one eye swelled shut, and a mouth thesize of a breakfast-roll?--Why, it's Mick!
"Did he lick me, Eli?" says I.
Eli laughed kind of nervous. "Neither you, nor him, nor me, will everknow," says he. "He's willing to call it a draw."
I staggered to my feet and wabbled to my partner in the dance, holdingout my hand. "Much obliged to you, Mick," says I.
He leaned back and laughed, till I joined, as well as I could, forcrying. He grabbed my hand and shook it. "Yer all right," says he."Sorry I am I said a word to ye. An' yer th' h--- of a red-headed bye tofight. I've enough."
Whilst I was a simple lad, I wasn't a fool. For me to hold thattwo-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound rough-and-tumble fighter even, wasimpossible. He was ashamed of the whole thing. As soon as his uglytemper had the edge knocked off it, he took that way of closing thedeal. No bad man at all, old Mick.
"You say that to save my feelings," I said.
"What's that?" says he, rough and hard. "Off with ye!" He wouldn't admitbeing decent for a farm. He swung away. Then I got another jar. A voicecalled me and I swung around.
Plain Mary Smith: A Romance of Red Saunders Page 4