Two heads suddenly came up.
“839,” said the freckled man, chokingly. “That’s it! 839!”
“What is?” said the tall man.
“That’s the number of that feller on Park Place. I just remembered.”
“You’re the bloomingest—” the tall man said.
“It wasn’t my fault,” interrupted his companion. “If you hadn’t—” He tried to gesticulate, but one hand held to the keel of the boat, and the other was supporting the form of the oarsman. The latter had fought a battle with his immense rubber boots and had been conquered.
The rescuer in the other small boat came fiercely. As his craft glided up, he reached out and grasped the tall man by the collar and dragged him into the boat, interrupting what was, under the circumstances, a very brilliant flow of rhetoric directed at the freckled man. The oarsman of the wrecked craft was taken tenderly over the gunwale and laid in the bottom of the boat. Puffing and blowing, the freckled man climbed in.
“You’ll upset this one before we can get ashore,” the other voyager remarked.
As they turned toward the land they saw that the nearest dock was lined with people. The freckled man gave a little moan.
But the staring eyes of the crowd were fixed on the limp form of the man in rubber boots. A hundred hands reached down to help lift the body up. On the dock some men grabbed it and began to beat it and roll it. A policeman tossed the spectators about. Each individual in the heaving crowd sought to fasten his eyes on the blue-tinted face of the man in the rubber boots. They surged to and fro, while the policeman beat them indiscriminately.
The wanderers came modestly up the dock and gazed shrinkingly at the throng. They stood for a moment, holding their breath to see the first finger of amazement leveled at them.
But the crowd bent and surged in absorbing anxiety to view the man in rubber boots, whose face fascinated them. The sea wanderers were as though they were not there.
They stood without the jam and whispered hurriedly.
“839,” said the freckled man.
“All right,” said the tall man.
Under the pommeling hands the oarsman showed signs of life. The voyagers watched him make a protesting kick at the legs of the crowd, the while uttering angry groans.
“He’s better,” said the tall man, softly; “let’s make off.”
Together they stole noiselessly up the dock. Directly in front of it they found a row of six cabs.
The drivers on top were filled with a mighty curiosity. They had driven hurriedly from the adjacent ferry-house when they had seen the first running sign of an accident. They were straining on their toes and gazing at the tossing backs of the men in the crowd.
The wanderers made a little détour, and then went rapidly toward a cab. They stopped in front of it and looked up.
“Driver,” called the tall man, softly.
The man was intent.
“Driver,” breathed the freckled man. They stood for a moment and gazed imploringly.
The cabman suddenly moved his feet. “By Jimmy, I bet he’s a goner,” he said, in an ecstasy, and he again relapsed into a statue.
The freckled man groaned and wrung his hands. The tall man climbed into the cab.
“Come in here,” he said to his companion. The freckled man climbed in, and the tall man reached over and pulled the door shut. Then he put his head out the window.
“Driver,” he roared, sternly, “839 Park Place—and quick.”
The driver looked down and met the eye of the tall man. “Eh?—Oh—839? Park Place? Yessir.” He reluctantly gave his horse a clump on the back. As the conveyance rattled off, the wanderers huddled back among the dingy cushions and heaved great breaths of relief.
“Well, it’s all over,” said the freckled man, finally. “We’re about out of it. And quicker than I expected. Much quicker. It looked to me sometimes that we were doomed. I am thankful to find it not so. I am rejoiced. And I hope and trust that you—well, I don’t wish to—perhaps it is not the proper time to—that is, I don’t wish to intrude a moral at an inopportune moment, but, my dear, dear fellow, I think the time is ripe to point out to you that your obstinacy, your selfishness, your villainous temper, and your various other faults can make it just as unpleasant for your own self, my dear boy, as they frequently do for other people. You can see what you brought us to, and I most sincerely hope, my dear, dear fellow, that I shall soon see those signs in you which shall lead me to believe that you have become a wiser man.”
1893?
[New York Press, Sunday Magazine, February 11,
pp. 6–11, 13; February 18, pp. 3–6, 1900.]
A DESERTION*
The yellow gaslight that came with an effect of difficulty through the dust-stained windows on either side of the door gave strange hues to the faces and forms of the three women who stood gabbling in the hallway of the tenement. They made rapid gestures, and in the background their enormous shadows mingled in terrific conflict.
“Aye, she ain’t so good as he thinks she is, I’ll bet. He can watch over ’er an’ take care of ’er all he pleases, but when she wants t’ fool ’im, she’ll fool ’im. An’ how does he know she ain’t foolin’ ’im now?”
“Oh, he thinks he’s keepin’ ’er from goin’ t’ th’ bad, he does. Oh, yes. He ses she’s too purty t’ let run ’round alone. Too purty! Huh! My Sadie—”
“Well, he keeps a clost watch on ’er, you bet. On’y las’ week, she met my boy Tim on th’ stairs, an’ Tim hadn’t said two words to ’er b’fore th’ ol’ man begins to holler, ‘Dorter, dorter, come here, come here!’ ”
At this moment a young girl entered from the street, and it was evident from the injured expressions suddenly assumed by the three gossipers that she had been the object of their discussion. She passed them with a slight nod, and they swung about into a row to stare after her.
On her way up the long flights the girl unfastened her veil. One could then clearly see the beauty of her eyes, but there was in them a certain furtiveness that came near to marring the effect. It was a peculiar fixture of gaze, brought from the street, as of one who there saw a succession of passing dangers, with menaces aligned at every corner.
On the top floor, she pushed open a door and then paused on the threshold, confronting an interior that appeared black and flat like a curtain. Perhaps some girlish idea of hobgoblins assailed her then, for she called in a little breathless voice, “Daddie!”
There was no reply. The fire in the cooking stove in the room crackled at spasmodic intervals. One lid was misplaced, and the girl could now see that this fact created a little flushed crescent upon the ceiling. Also, a series of tiny windows in the stove caused patches of red upon the floor. Otherwise, the room was heavily draped with shadows.
The girl called again, “Daddie!”
Yet there was no reply.
“Oh, Daddie!”
Presently she laughed as one familiar with the humors of an old man. “Oh, I guess yer cussin’ mad about yer supper, dad,” she said, and she almost entered the room, but suddenly faltered, overcome by a feminine instinct to fly from this black interior, peopled with imagined dangers.
Again she called, “Daddie!” Her voice had an accent of appeal. It was as if she knew she was foolish but yet felt obliged to insist upon being reassured. “Oh, daddie!”
Of a sudden a cry of relief, a feminine announcement that the stars still hung, burst from her. For, according to some mystic process, the smoldering coals of the fire went aflame with sudden, fierce brilliance, splashing parts of the walls, the floor, the crude furniture, with a hue of blood-red. And in this dramatic outburst of light, the girl saw her father seated at a table with his back turned toward her.
She entered the room, then, with an aggrieved air, her logic evidently concluding that somebody was to blame for her nervous fright. “Oh, yer on’y sulkin’ ’bout yer supper. I thought mebbe ye’d gone somewheres.”
Her father made no rep
ly. She went over to a shelf in the corner, and, taking a little lamp, she lit it and put it where it would give her light as she took off her hat and jacket in front of the tiny mirror. Presently she began to bustle among the cooking utensils that were crowded into the sink, and as she worked she rattled talk at her father, apparently disdaining his mood.
“I’d ’a’ come home earlier t’night, dad, on’y that fly foreman, he kep’ me in th’ shop till half-past six. What a fool! He came t’ me, yeh know, an’ he ses, ‘Nell, I wanta give yeh some brotherly advice.’ Oh, I know him an’ his brotherly advice. ‘I wanta give yeh some brotherly advice. Yer too purty, Nell,’ he ses, ‘t’ be workin’ in this shop an’ paradin’ through th’ streets alone, without somebody t’ give yeh good brotherly advice, an’ I wanta warn yeh, Nell. I’m a bad man, but I ain’t as bad as some, an’ I wanta warn yeh.’ ‘Oh, g’long ’bout yer business,’ I ses. I know ’im. He’s like all of ’em, on’y he’s a little slyer. I know ’im. ‘You g’long ’bout yer business,’ I ses. Well, he sed after a while that he guessed some evenin’ he’d come up an’ see me. ‘Oh, yeh will?’ I ses. ‘Yeh will? Well, you jest let my ol’ man ketch yeh comin’ foolin’ ’round our place. Yeh’ll wish yeh went t’ some other girl t’ give brotherly advice.’ ‘What th’ ’ell do I care fer yer father?’ he ses. ‘What’s he t’ me?’ ‘If he throws yeh downstairs, yeh’ll care for ’im,’ I ses. ‘Well,’ he ses, ‘I’ll come when ’e ain’t in, b’ Gawd; I’ll come when ’e ain’t in.’ ‘Oh, he’s allus in when it means takin’ care a’ me,’ I ses. ‘Don’t yeh fergit it either. When it comes t’ takin’ care o’ his dorter, he’s right on deck every single possible time.’ ”
After a time, she turned and addressed cheery words to the old man. “Hurry up th’ fire, daddie! We’ll have supper pretty soon.”
But still her father was silent, and his form in its sullen posture was motionless.
At this, the girl seemed to see the need of the inauguration of a feminine war against a man out of temper. She approached him breathing soft, coaxing syllables. “Daddie! Oh, Daddie! O-o-oh, Daddie!”
It was apparent from a subtle quality of valor in her tones that this manner of onslaught upon his moods had usually been successful, but tonight it had no quick effect. The words, coming from her lips, were like the refrain of an old ballad, but the man remained stolid.
“Daddie! My Daddie! Oh, Daddie, are yeh mad at me—really, truly mad at me?”
She touched him lightly upon the arm. Should he have turned then he would have seen the fresh, laughing face, with dew-sparkling eyes, close to his own.
“Oh, Daddie! My Daddie! Pretty Daddie!”
She stole her arm about his neck, and then slowly bent her face toward his. It was the action of a queen who knows that she reigns notwithstanding irritations, trials, tempests.
But suddenly, from this position, she leaped backward with the mad energy of a frightened colt. Her face was in this instant turned to a gray, featureless thing of horror. A yell, wild and hoarse as a brute cry, burst from her. “Daddie!” She flung herself to a place near the door, where she remained, crouching, her eyes staring at the motionless figure, spattered by the quivering flashes from the fire. Her arms extended, and her frantic fingers at once besought and repelled. There was in them an expression of eagerness to caress and an expression of the most intense loathing. And the girl’s hair, that had been a splendor, was in these moments changed to a disordered mass that hung and swayed in witch-like fashion.
Again a terrible cry burst from her. It was more than the shriek of agony—it was direct, personal, addressed to him in the chair, the first word of a tragic conversation with the dead.
It seemed that when she had put her arm about its neck, she had jostled the corpse in such a way that now she and it were face to face. The attitude expressed an intention of arising from the table. The eyes, fixed upon hers, were filled with an unspeakable hatred.
The cries of the girl aroused thunders in the tenement. There was a loud slamming of doors, and presently there was a roar of feet upon the boards of the stairway. Voices rang out sharply.
“What is it?”
“What’s th’ matter?”
“He’s killin’ ’er!”
“Slug ’im wit’ anythin’ yeh kin lay hold of, Jack.”
But over all this came the shrill shrewish tones of a woman. “Ah, th’ damned ol’ fool, he’s drivin’ ’er inteh th’ street—that’s what he’s doin’. He’s drivin’ ’er inteh th’ street.”
1893?
[Harper’s Magazine, Vol. 101 (November, 1900), pp. 938–939.]
* Midnight Sketches.
AN EXPERIMENT IN MISERY*
It was late at night, and a fine rain was swirling softly down, causing the pavements to glisten with hue of steel and blue and yellow in the rays of the innumerable lights. A youth was trudging slowly, without enthusiasm, with his hands buried deep in his trousers pockets, toward the downtown places where beds can be hired for coppers. He was clothed in an aged and tattered suit, and his derby was a marvel of dust-covered crown and torn rim. He was going forth to eat as the wanderer may eat, and sleep as the homeless sleep. By the time he had reached City Hall Park he was so completely plastered with yells of “bum” and “hobo,” and with various unholy epithets that small boys had applied to him at intervals, 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 there no longer could be pleasure in life. He looked about him searching for an outcast of highest degree that they two might share miseries, but the lights threw a quivering glare over rows and circles of deserted benches that glistened damply, showing patches of wet sod behind them. It seemed that their usual freights had fled on this night to better things. There were only squads of well-dressed Brooklyn people who swarmed toward the bridge.
The young man loitered about for a time and then went shuffling off down Park Row. In the sudden descent in style of the dress of the crowd he felt relief, and as if he were at last in his own country. He began to see tatters that matched his tatters. In Chatham Square there were aimless men strewn in front of saloons and lodging houses, standing sadly, patiently, reminding one vaguely of the attitudes of chickens in a storm. He aligned himself with these men, and turned slowly to occupy himself with the flowing life of the great street.
Through the mists of the cold and storming night, the cable cars went in silent procession, great affairs shining with red and brass, moving with formidable power, calm and irresistible, dangerful and gloomy, breaking silence only by the loud fierce cry of the gong. Two rivers of people swarmed along the sidewalks, spattered with black mud, which made each shoe leave a scar-like impression. Overhead, elevated trains with a shrill grinding of the wheels stopped at the station, which upon its leg-like pillars seemed to resemble some monstrous kind of crab squatting over the street. The quick fat puffings of the engines could be heard. Down an alley there were somber curtains of purple and black, on which street lamps dully glittered like embroidered flowers.
A saloon stood with a voracious air on a corner. A sign leaning against the front of the doorpost announced “Free hot soup tonight!” 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 some indescribable manner as the men came from all directions like sacrifices to a heathenish superstition.
Caught by the delectable sign, the young man allowed himself to be swallowed. A bartender placed a schooner of dark and portentous beer on the bar. Its monumental form upreared until the froth atop was above the crown of the young man’s brown derby.
“Soup over there, gents,” said the bartender affably. A little yellow man in rags and the youth grasped their schooners and went with speed toward a lunch counter, where a man with oily but imposing whiskers ladled genially from a kettle until he had fur
nished his two mendicants with a soup that was steaming hot, and in which there were little floating suggestions of chicken. The young man, sipping his broth, felt the cordiality expressed by the warmth of the mixture, and he beamed at the man with oily but imposing whiskers, who was presiding like a priest behind an altar. “Have some more, gents?” he inquired of the two sorry figures before him. The little yellow man accepted with a swift gesture, but the youth shook his head and went out, following a man whose wondrous seediness promised that he would have a knowledge of cheap lodging houses.
On the sidewalk he accosted the seedy man. “Say, do you know a cheap place to sleep?”
The other hesitated for a time, gazing sideways. Finally he nodded 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 for me.”
At that moment there approached the two a reeling man in strange garments. His head was a fuddle of bushy hair and whiskers, from which his eyes peered with a guilty slant. In a close scrutiny it was possible to distinguish the cruel lines of a mouth which looked as if its lips had just closed with satisfaction over some tender and piteous morsel. He appeared like an assassin steeped in crimes performed awkwardly.
But at this time his voice was tuned to the coaxing key of an affectionate puppy. He looked at the men with wheedling eyes, and began 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, an’ 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 respecterble gentlem’n feels when he’s down on his luck, an’ I—”
The seedy man, staring with imperturbable countenance at a train which clattered overhead, interrupted in an expressionless voice: “Ah, go t’ hell!”
The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane Page 18