"Oh, Bill, don't!" she murmured in distress. "Oh, Bill, not you!"
"What's the matter?" he said confused. "Didn't you come to me natural just now? Don't that mean nothing?"
"Oh, Bill, I wanted you for a friend. I counted on you. How can we live a life like ours without one friend? And where will I look for a friend if you fail me?"
"Fail you?" he echoed, spreading out his hands. "Ain't I offerin' you all I have?"
"Not that, Bill! I couldn't!" in desperation she blurted out: "There's somebody else ... outside. I may never see him again, but I got to stick to him!"
"Oh," he said in quite a different tone, and stood looking at her for a long time without speaking. An ugly look began to appear in his slow, pained eyes.
"They're all alike!" thought Jessie hopelessly.
He suddenly put out his hand, and seized her wrist in a terrible grasp. "Damn you!" he said thickly—but there was as much pain as rage in his voice, "then what did you look at me so kind for?"
Jessie stood perfectly quiet. "Because I liked you," she said.
"Liked me! Yah!" he snarled. "What's that to a man? What's friendship mean? It's like handin' a starvin' man a hunk o' chalk to eat! ... What you want to tantalise me for? Women is cruel to men, and a man's prepared for it. But you let on you were different. Now you got me going, how can I stop?"
The skilled psychologist called upon all her knowledge of the human soul. "I am not afraid of you," she said steadily. "I saw from the first that you were not like the others. You could not hurt me, because I like you."
He flung her arm violently from him, and walked away. "Don't look at me like that!" he cried. "Don't look at me!"
Jessie considered whether it were wiser to leave the room or to stay. To go might have the look of flight, and would instantly rouse the savage in him to pursue; so she stayed.
Bill flung himself into the chair he had first occupied, and gripped his head between his hands. "I want to do the right thing by you," he groaned. "You're as dear to me as a child of my own. But ... but you don't know what a man's got to fight ... his hunger ... and his madness! There's a devil in me; after so much he puts me down, and then I don't know what I'm doing."
"Oh, Bill, I know," she cried warmly. "Bill, you're a dandy! I'm proud to know you! We will be friends."
"To hell with your friendship!" he cried, with a savage thrust of his arm. "Get out of here! I can't bear to look at you."
Since he told her to go, she hesitated no longer, but walked slowly out of the room, and upstairs to her own room. After all, she was only a woman, and how thankful she would have been to possess the key to her door!
She sat down on the edge of the bed, discouraged. To be sure, she had won for the moment. But this sort of fight is won only to be always more savagely renewed. "Oh, why wasn't I a man!" she groaned to herself. "Or why didn't I make myself up with a hump on my back, and a patch over one eye. How can I go on here?"
CHAPTER XV
THAT EVENING
During the morning Mrs. Pullen called Sam up to tell him she would be kept out all day by important business. Jessie heard this piece of information from Pap at lunch time. Except for Pap shuffling in and out of the room, Jessie ate her lunch alone. Both Sam and Bill were keeping out of her way for reasons of their own, and Abell had not come down from his sleeping room up on the top floor.
After lunch Jessie returned to her room. She kept the back of a chair propped under the handle of her door for what protection it would afford, but there was no attempt to disturb her again. She was sitting by her window for coolness when she saw Sam cross the yard below with tools in his hand. Evidently he was on his way to fix the sliding door. It occurred to Jessie that this would be a good opportunity to send a message outside. She knew that Pap and Bill were in the kitchen, two floors below. To be sure, Abell might come out of his room overhead, but he was so sore against the outfit, she was inclined to chance his betraying her. Her wandering about the house might easily be ascribed to a girl's natural curiosity anyhow.
The door of Mrs. Pullen's room was not locked. Jessie smiled at the picture that met her eyes, it was so different from what one might have expected. It appeared that, within her own sanctum, Black Kate was a bit of a sybarite. There was a deep-piled rug on the floor; there was a divan heaped with cushions in silken covers, each with a voluminous frill. The imposing brass bed had a lace spread and "pillow-shams," the pictures on the walls were of the melting school of Bougoureau; there was an immense bureau with an opulent display of silver toilet articles.
A hasty glance around assured Jessie that there was no written evidence that might be useful to her; the astute Mrs. Pullen would not be so foolish, of course. Her next move was to glance out of the window without disturbing the lace curtains. She saw that it was indeed Varick Street below. That thoroughfare is unmistakable owing to its recent widening, which has left all the ancient houses on one side of the street, with odd-shaped vacant lots, and crude new structures on the other. Jessie then went into the closet to telephone, leaving both doors open behind her to guard against surprise.
She called up your humble servant, Bella Brickley, and this brings me into the story again. I need not say how overjoyed I was to hear her dear voice again. I did not even know that she was out of prison, since the news of her escape had been kept out of the papers. It bowled me right over, and I blubbered into the telephone like a child.
It was all very brief. She gave me the main facts of the situation so phrased that nobody but myself could have understood it. She did not dwell upon her own danger, but I perceived it clearly enough, and then I was ready to weep with terror. Her instructions were that if I did not hear from her again within a week, I was to carry the information to Inspector Rumsey of the police, for him to act upon as he saw fit. But I was to make no move until the week was up.
"Should I not arrange to have some one listen in on their conversations?" I asked.
"No," said my mistress quickly. "They are too clever to give themselves away over the phone. Besides, a sharp ear can detect when the wire is open. If they suspected they were watched it would frustrate my whole scheme. I want them to have all the rope there is."
I bade her good-bye with a heavy heart.
Jessie's discouragement was but momentary. The greater the difficulties, the greater the demands upon her. She found herself able to rise to them. Her course of action was clear; apart from the detestable business of sex, she must make these men like her. Impossible as it might seem, they must meet on another plane than sex. She planned to unite them with herself by means of their common resentment against their inhuman taskmasters.
All the men came to the supper table, and in addition there appeared a new member of the gang, a big loutish fellow, whom they called Fingy Silo. He, with his thick lips and little swimming eyes, was the most frankly sensual of the lot. A sweep of dark hair obscured his low forehead, and his mouth generally hung open. He seemed to have scarcely more intelligence than an ape, and he had in addition that quality of brutality which is purely man's, and man's worst quality. Throughout the meal he stared at Jessie unabashed. Jessie, blandly ignoring it, treated him with the same offhand friendliness the others, but he only goggled at her stupidly. She was at a disadvantage in dealing with such a one; her methods were too fine for him.
It was a curious assortment that faced her, and she the only woman amongst them. Bill Combs had recovered his usual stolidity and his face gave nothing away. Skinny Sam was quieter than his wont, and glinted at Jessie through his lashes with evil eyes. Then there was the decayed Pap with his senile giggle; little white-faced Abell, who scarcely ever looked up from his plate; and finally this big lout, Fingy Silo. Jessie gallantly applied herself to the unpromising material.
"Gee! this is as cheerful as a funeral!" she cried. "Cheer up, boys! There'll be no wash in Heaven! Don't yeh never have a word to say wit' yer meals? I should think yer food would choke yeh. Me, I gotta talk or die. Pass the lobsc
ouce, Pap."
Only Pap responded at first. "You're feelin' pretty good to-night, eh?" said he with his disagreeable smile. He did not intend it to be disagreeable, but he was a little warped.
"Feel good!" cried Jessie. "I'm desperate. I gotta holler and act the fool to keep my spirits up."
This struck an answering chord in Abell, who lifted his head with a faint smile on his white face. It was almost the first notice he had taken of Jessie. "Like a kid, when he walks by the cemetery," he said.
"Sure," said Jessie, waving her hand about the table. "Look at them corpses."
There was something between her and Abell that the others did not share in; the knowledge of a better way of living.
"Speaking of corpses," she went on, "did you ever hear the story of Crematory Johnson who riz and walked?" She told the droll negro tale with all the delicious mimicry for which she was famous in another sphere. Fun is fun just the same in any walk of life; Big Bill rumbled with laughter in his diaphragm, and Pap fairly squealed.
"Gee! Fuzzy-Wuz can tell a story all right," he said delightedly.
The name stuck.
Jessie capped it with another and another. Even Sam, seeing how the current was running, made haste to swim with it, and he, at least, made believe to laugh as heartily as the rest. The new-comer, Fingy Silo, continued to stare at Jessie like an animal.
Whatever a man's private griefs or passions, he can rarely resist an invitation to sociability. It worked a marvel around that gloomy board. Loud, cheerful talk became general, and all (excepting Fingy) beamed on each other in the most friendly fashion. No one could have supposed that a shadow lay on any of them. Both Abell, in his quiet way, and Bill Combs, in his stolid way, proved to have a talent for story-telling, and they added their contributions. Jessie was aware every minute that the ugly passions were only slumbering, and that a single wrong word would provoke an explosion. She ran the show.
In the middle of it, Abell said thoughtlessly: "This is just like old times!"
"What old times?" asked Jessie.
All the men turned silent and uncomfortable. Jessie thought: "They mean when Melanie was here!" She made haste to tell another story.
Some word brought up Woburn, and Jessie was induced to tell the story of her escape. The incident of the Warden's tea-party made the most successful story of all, because that was real, and it came close home to all of them.
After supper there was a general move downstairs to the kitchen to smoke. "So far, so good," thought Jessie. "It doesn't mean much, but it's a beginning. Should I go to my room now? ... No, it would risk what I have gained. I must see it through to the end."
On the way downstairs she happened to be next to Abell. He slipped his hand under her arm, and whispered with a touching burst of confidence: "You know, I got a fine boy twelve years old. You wouldn't think it, would you? I was married when I was nineteen. He's most ready for High School already. That boy's going to make something of himself!"
"Isn't that bully!" Jessie whispered back, greatly moved. To herself she whispered exultantly: "I am making progress!"
In the kitchen Pap piled all the dishes in the sink, "until morning." Somebody suggested a game of Bridge. Bridge in a thieves' kitchen! This struck Jessie as comic. There were six of them, and only four could play; a dispute arose as to who should be included. The situation was too hazardous for Jessie to think of keeping her mind on cards, and she said: "Count me out. I ain't got no card sense."
Whereupon the dispute was reversed. Neither Bill, Sam, nor Fingy wanted to play then. Finally the game was given up in disgust. At this moment Sam, unluckily, happened to finger the bump on the back of his head tenderly. This induced Bill to tell the story of Sam's discomfiture that day. Sam retired from the room white with rage. The evening appeared to be spoiled. Jessie couldn't whoop up sociability again, for to be successful that sort of thing must appear to come about naturally. So she made believe to be bored.
"Can't anybody raise a song?" she said.
It transpired that Abell possessed a ukelele. He was sent to fetch it.
Totally unregardful of his listeners, Abell sat slumped down in a kitchen chair, his head brooding over his instrument, his eyes half closed. He sang coon songs in a droning, nasal voice, but with charm. He made no effort to please; he had temperament, as they call it; he gave himself up to his singing, and they all listened with pleasure.
It was a queer enough scene under the single gas-get. Every now and then air came through the gas-pipe, and the jet hissed and flared. The walls and ceiling of the room had been painted a ghastly blue, which was now much discoloured by greasy kitchen smoke. The edges of the cupboard doors were black with finger-marks, and most of the doors were hanging by a single hinge. Bill, Pap, and Fingy were sitting roughly in a row with their backs to the outside door and window, all three balancing on the hind legs of their chairs. The first-named was smoking an ancient pipe, much charred around the edge of the bowl; the other two lit one cigarette from the butt of the last. Abell sat across the room from the two stoves, his heels on the edge of a dresser. Jessie sat alone facing the three, with two doors at her back. One of these doors led to a pantry, the other to the basement hall.
Without appearing to, Jessie, while she smoked her cigarette, was studying Fingy Silo, who presented a new problem to her. He was still young, but a man of that coarse type loses the attractiveness of youth before he is out of boyhood—if, indeed, he had ever had it. He was immensely powerful without being well-shapen; his neck looked thicker than the head it bore. Jessie had scarcely heard him open his mouth; but her intuition told her that as a result of his long, brutal stare, he would presently act. How could one handle a man so impervious? You couldn't reach him from the outside. He was moved regardless, by slow, dim forces within.
Between songs, while Abell was tuning his instrument, Fingy arose, and coolly picking up his chair, carried it across the room and placed it beside Jessie's. This act had all the effect of a direct challenge to Bill, but Jessie saw that Fingy did not intend it as such. With perfect egotism, it never occurred to him that any other man might prefer a claim to the girl. Bill said nothing at the moment, but his pained eyes began to burn dangerously, and the air of the room became charged as with thunder.
Abell, with no thought apart from his instrument, began another song. Fingy behind his hand, with absurd obviousness, whispered to Jessie: "Fuzzy-Wuz, you're a damn good-lookin' girl."
"Cut it out," said Jessie indifferently. "I'm not interested."
It did not penetrate.
From across the room came Bill's voice. The big man was still keeping a hold on himself. "If you got anything to say, Fingy, speak out."
Fingy looked at him with a surprised, black scowl. Then he looked at Jessie. It took him some moments to figure the situation out. Meanwhile Abell went on with his song.
Once more Fingy put up his hand. "Come on out in the yard," he whispered. "You can hear just as good out there."
"I told you to cut it out," said Jessie, giving him her full glance. "You may as well get it through your head. There's nothing doing."
But his little eyes gloated on her without giving a sign of having heard.
"Hold up a minute, Abie," said Bill, putting up his palm. The musician looked up in surprise.
"I got a word to say to Fingy," Bill went on. "We all know that this sort of business is against the rules. Well, none of us cares so damn much about the rules as that. But we can't all break this rule, and nachelly the rest of us isn't goin' to stand by and see one get away with it."
"That's just talk," said Fingy. "You mean you want the girl yourself."
"All right," said Bill sticking out his jaw. "What about it?"
"You'll have to fight me for her," said Fingy. There was something impressive about such simplicity.
"Any time," said Bill.
Jessie picked up her chair, and planted it with its back to the gas-stove, exactly between the two parties. "You can fight if
you want," she said indifferently, "but it will do you no good. I don't want either of you. The winner means no more to me than the loser. I mean to keep myself to myself. Go on with your song, Abie."
The ukelele set up its whining again, but after a moment or two Fingy said to Bill in the same tone as before: "Well, are you man enough to fight for her?"
Bill said nothing at all, but got up with a surprising alacrity, an eager glitter in his eyes. Jessie was enraged by their attitude towards women. Obviously, her feelings meant nothing to either of them. But she had wit enough to see that the situation had passed out of her influence, and she kept her mouth shut. Abell got up with an air that said it was none of his concern, and went out through the hall. Jessie heard him mount the stairs with a sinking heart. The most nearly civilised one in the house!
She considered whether she should go to her room. But, no! One of them would only follow her there later, and she had no means of keeping him out. She must see the thing through on the spot.
Neither Bill nor Fingy had worn a coat in the kitchen. They now unlaced their shoes and kicked them off, eyeing each other. Pap was in great excitement. He took up his stand in the doorway leading to the hall, where he could see all that went on, yet keep an ear open for the possible return of Mrs. Pullen. Jessie leaned against a table, affecting to look out of the window. But she was not as superhumanly indifferent to the scene as she appeared. By keeping a little to one side of the window, she could see all that happened reflected in the glass.
She gathered that these affairs were conducted according to a code of their own. All contestants were in honour bound to make as little noise as possible; hence the stocking feet. There was no punching; that made too much noise; they wrestled; and, apparently, any foul grip and dirty trick was permissible, if you could get away with it.
The two men circled the floor, watching each other for an opening with dehumanised fighting faces. They were well enough matched; Bill was the more powerful, but Fingy was perhaps fifteen years younger. Their sagging clothes rendered their bodies hideous; their ugly flat feet seemed to adhere to the floor. There promised to be nothing glorious about this fight. Jessie shivered—not with fear, but with repulsion.
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