The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  And his companions leaned back valorously in their chairs and scrutinized this slim young fellow who was addressing Patsy.

  “What’s de little Dago chewin’ about?”

  “He wants t’ scrap!”

  “What!”

  The Cuban listened with apparent composure. It was only when they laughed that his body cringed as if he was receiving lashes. Presently he put down his glass and walked over to their table. He proceeded always with the most impressive deliberation.

  “Sir,” he began again. “You have insult me. I must have s-s-satisfac-shone. I must have your body upon the point of my sword. In my country you would already be dead. I must have s-s-satisfac-shone.”

  Patsy had looked at the Cuban with a trifle of bewilderment. But at last his face began to grow dark with belligerency, his mouth curve in that wide sneer with which he would confront an angel of darkness. He arose suddenly in his seat and came toward the little Cuban. He was going to be impressive too.

  “Say, young feller, if yeh go shootin’ off yer face at me, I’ll wipe d’joint wid yeh. What’cher gaffin’ about, hey? Are yeh givin’ me er jolly? Say, if yeh pick me up fer a cinch, I’ll fool yeh. Dat’s what! Don’t take me fer no dead easy mug.” And as he glowered at the little Cuban, he ended his oration with one eloquent word, “Nit!”

  The bartender nervously polished his bar with a towel, and kept his eyes fastened upon the men. Occasionally he became transfixed with interest, leaning forward with one hand upon the edge of the bar and the other holding the towel grabbed in a lump, as if he had been turned into bronze when in the very act of polishing.

  The Cuban did not move when Patsy came toward him and delivered his oration. At its conclusion he turned his livid face toward where, above him, Patsy was swaggering and heaving his shoulders in a consummate display of bravery and readiness. The Cuban, in his clear, tense tones, spoke one word. It was the bitter insult. It seemed to fairly spin from his lips and crackle in the air like breaking glass.

  Every man save the little Cuban made an electric movement. Patsy roared a black oath and thrust himself forward until he towered almost directly above the other man. His fists were doubled into knots of bone and hard flesh. The Cuban had raised a steady finger.

  “If you touch me wis your hand, I will keel you.”

  The two well-dressed men had come swiftly, uttering protesting cries. They suddenly intervened in this second of time in which Patsy had sprung forward and the Cuban had uttered his threat. The four men were now a tossing, arguing, violent group, one well-dressed man lecturing the Cuban, and the other holding off Patsy, who was now wild with rage, loudly repeating the Cuban’s threat, and maneuvering and struggling to get at him for revenge’s sake.

  The bartender, feverishly scouring away with his towel, and at times pacing to and fro with nervous and excited tread, shouted out: “Say, for heaven’s sake, don’t fight in here. If yeh wanta fight, go out in the street and fight all yeh please. But don’t fight in here.”

  Patsy knew only one thing, and this he kept repeating: “Well, he wants t’ scrap! I didn’t begin dis! He wants t’ scrap.”

  The well-dressed man confronting him continually replied: “Oh, well, now, look here, he’s only a lad. He don’t know what he’s doing. He’s crazy mad. You wouldn’t slug a kid like that.”

  Patsy and his aroused companions, who cursed and growled, were persistent with their argument. “Well, he wants t’ scrap!” The whole affair was as plain as daylight when one saw this great fact. The interference and intolerable discussion brought the three of them forward, battleful and fierce.

  “What’s eatin’ you, anyhow?” they demanded. “Dis ain’t your business, is it? What business you got shootin’ off your face?”

  The other peacemaker was trying to restrain the little Cuban, who had grown shrill and violent.

  “If he touch me wis his hand I will keel him. We must fight like gentlemen or else I keel him when he touch me wis his hand.”

  The man who was fending off Patsy comprehended these sentences that were screamed behind his back, and he explained to Patsy: “But he wants to fight you with swords. With swords, you know.”

  The Cuban, dodging around the peacemakers, yelled in Patsy’s face:

  “Ah, if I could get you before me wis my sword! Ah! Ah! A-a-ah!” Patsy made a furious blow with a swift fist, but the peacemakers bucked against his body suddenly like football players.

  Patsy was greatly puzzled. He continued doggedly to try to get near enough to the Cuban to punch him. To these attempts the Cuban replied savagely: “If you touch me wis your hand, I will cut your heart in two piece.”

  At last Patsy said: “Well, if he’s so dead stuck on fightin’ wid swords, I’ll fight ’im. Soitenly! I’ll fight ’im.” All this palaver had evidently tired him, and he now puffed out his lips with the air of a man who is willing to submit to any conditions if he can only bring on the row soon enough. He swaggered. “I’ll fight ’im wid swords. Let ’im bring on his swords, an’ I’ll fight ’im till he’s ready t’ quit.”

  The two well-dressed men grinned. “Why, look here,” they said to Patsy, “he’d punch you full of holes. Why, he’s a fencer. You can’t fight him with swords. He’d kill you in ’bout a minute.”

  “Well, I’ll giv’ ’im a go at it, anyhow,” said Patsy, stouthearted and resolute. “I’ll giv’ ’im a go at it, anyhow, an’ I’ll stay wid ’im long as I kin.”

  As for the Cuban, his lithe little body was quivering in an ecstasy of the muscles. His face radiant with a savage joy, he fastened his glance upon Patsy, his eyes gleaming with a gloating, murderous light. A most unspeakable, animal-like rage was in his expression. “Ah! ah! He will fight me! Ah!” He bent unconsciously in the posture of a fencer. He had all the quick, springy movements of a skillful swordsman. “Ah, the b-r-r-rute! The b-r-r-rute! I will stick him like a pig!”

  The two peacemakers, still grinning broadly, were having a great time with Patsy, “Why, you infernal idiot, this man would slice you all up. You better jump off the bridge if you want to commit suicide. You wouldn’t stand a ghost of a chance to live ten seconds.”

  Patsy was as unshaken as granite. “Well, if he wants t’ fight wid swords, he’ll get it. I’ll giv’ ’im a go at it, anyhow.”

  One man said: “Well, have you got a sword? Do you know what a sword is? Have you got a sword?”

  “No, I ain’t got none,” said Patsy honestly, “but I kin git one.” Then he added valiantly: “An’ quick too.”

  The two men laughed. “Why, can’t you understand it would be sure death to fight a sword duel with this fellow?”

  “Dat’s all right! See? I know me own business. If he wants t’ fight one of dees damn duels, I’m in it, understand”

  “Have you ever fought one, you fool?”

  “No, I ain’t. But I will fight one, dough! I ain’t no muff. If he wants t’ fight a duel, by Gawd, I’m wid ’im! D’yeh understan’ dat?” Patsy cocked his hat and swaggered. He was getting very serious.

  The little Cuban burst out: “Ah, come on, sirs: come on! We can take cab. Ah, you big cow, I will stick you, I will stick you. Ah, you will look very beautiful, very beautiful. Ah, come on, sirs. We will stop at hotel—my hotel. I there have weapons.”

  “Yeh will, will yeh? Yeh bloomin’ little black Dago,” cried Patsy in hoarse and maddened reply to the personal part of the Cuban’s speech. He stepped forward. “Git yer damn swords,” he commanded. “Git yer swords. Git ’em quick! I’ll fight wi’che! I’ll fight wid anyting, too! See? I’ll fight yeh wid a knife an’ fork if yeh say so! I’ll fight yeh standin’ up er sittin’ down!” Patsy delivered this intense oration with sweeping, intensely emphatic gestures, his hands stretched out eloquently, his jaw thrust forward, his eyes glaring.

  “Ah,” cried the little Cuban joyously. “Ah, you are in very pretty temper. Ah, how I will cut your heart in two piece, my dear, d-e-a-r friend.” His eyes, too, shone like carbun
cles, with a swift, changing glitter, always fastened upon Patsy’s face.

  The two peacemakers were perspiring and in despair. One of them blurted out: “Well, I’ll be blamed if this ain’t the most ridiculous thing I ever saw.” The other said: “For ten dollars I’d be tempted to let these two infernal blockheads have their duel.”

  Patsy was strutting to and fro, and conferring grandly with his friends. “He took me for a muff. He tought he was goin’ t’ bluff me out, talkin’ ’bout swords. He’ll get fooled.” He addressed the Cuban: “You’re a fine little dirty picter of a scrapper, ain’che? I’ll chew yez up, dat’s what I will.”

  There began then some rapid action. The patience of well-dressed men is not an eternal thing. It began to look as if it would at last be a fight with six corners to it. The faces of the men were shining red with anger. They jostled each other defiantly, and almost every one blazed out at three or four of the others. The bartender had given up protesting. He swore for a time, and banged his glasses. Then he jumped the bar and ran out of the saloon, cursing sullenly.

  When he came back with a policeman, Patsy and the Cuban were preparing to depart together. Patsy was delivering his last oration: “I’ll fight yeh wid swords! Sure I will! Come ahead, Dago! I’ll fight yeh anywheres wid anyting! We’ll have a large, juicy scrap, an’ don’t yeh forgit dat! I’m right wid yez. I ain’t no muff! I scrap wid a man jest as soon as he ses scrap, an’ if yeh wanta scrap, I’m yer kitten. Understan’ dat?”

  The policeman said sharply: “Come, now; what’s all this?” He had a distinctly business air.

  The little Cuban stepped forward calmly. “It is none of your business.”

  The policeman flushed to his ears. “What?”

  One well-dressed man touched the other on the sleeve. “Here’s the time to skip,” he whispered. They halted a block away from the saloon and watched the policeman pull the Cuban through the door. There was a minute of scuffle on the sidewalk, and into this deserted street at midnight fifty people appeared at once as if from the sky to watch it.

  At last the three Cherry Hill men came from the saloon, and swaggered with all their old valor toward the peacemakers. “Ah,” said Patsy to them, “he was so hot talkin’ about this duel business, but I would a-givin ’im a great scrap, an’ don’t yeh forgit it.”

  For Patsy was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral.

  December 9, 1894

  [New York Press, part 3, p. 2.]

  * Midnight Sketches.

  A CHRISTMAS DINNER WON IN BATTLE

  Tom had set up a plumbing shop in the prairie town of Levelville as soon as the people learned to care more about sanitary conditions than they did about the brand of tobacco smoked by the inhabitants of Mars. Nevertheless he was a wise young man, for he was only one week ahead of the surveyors. A railroad, like a magic wand, was going to touch Levelville and change it to a great city. In an incredibly short time, the town had a hotel, a mayor, a board of aldermen and more than a hundred real estate agents, besides a blueprint of the plans for a street railway three miles long. When the cowboys rode in with their customary noise to celebrate the fact that they had been paid, their efforts were discouraged by new policemen in uniform. Levelville had become a dignified city.

  As the town expanded in marvelous circles out over the prairies, Tom bestrode the froth of the wave of progress. He was soon one of the first citizens. These waves carry men to fortune with sudden sweeping movements, and Tom had the courage, the temerity, and the assurance to hold his seat like a knight-errant.

  In the democratic and genial atmosphere of this primary boom, he became an intimate acquaintance of Colonel Fortman, the president of the railroad, and with more courage, temerity, and assurance, had already fallen violently in love with his daughter, the incomparable Mildred. He carried his intimacy with the colonel so far as to once save his life from the flying might of the 5:30 express. It seems that the colonel had ordered the engineer of the 5:30 to make his time under all circumstances; to make his time if he had to run through fire, blood, and earthquake. The engineer decided that the usual rule relating to the speed of trains when passing through freight yards could not concern an express that was ordered to slow down for nothing but the wrath of heaven and in consequence, at the time of this incident, the 5:30 was shrieking through the Levelville freight yard at fifty miles an hour, roaring over the switches and screaming along the lines of boxcars. The colonel and Tom were coming from the shops. They had just rounded the corner of a car and stepped out upon the main track when this whirring, boiling, howling demon of an express came down upon them. Tom had an instant in which to drag his companion off the rails; the train whistled past them like an enormous projectile. “Damn that fellow—he’s making his time,” panted the old colonel gazing after the long speeding shadow with its two green lights. Later he said very soberly: “I’m much obliged to you for that Tom, old boy.”

  When Tom went to him a year later, however, to ask for the hand of Mildred, the colonel replied: “My dear man, I think you are insane. Mildred will have over a million dollars at my death, and while I don’t mean to push the money part of it too far forward, yet Mildred with her beauty, her family name and her wealth, can marry the finest in the land. There isn’t anyone too great for her. So you see, my dear man, it is impossible that she could consider you for a moment.”

  Whereupon Tom lost his temper. He had the indignation of a good, sound-minded, fearless-eyed young fellow who is assured of his love and assured almost of the love of the girl. Moreover, it filled him with unspeakable rage to be called: “My dear man.”

  They then accused each other of motives of which neither were guilty, and Tom went away. It was a serious quarrel. The colonel told Tom never to dare to cross his threshold. They passed each other on the street without a wink of an eye to disclose the fact that one knew that the other existed. As time went on the colonel became more massively aristocratic and more impenetrably stern. Levelville had developed about five grades of society, and the Fortmans mingled warily with the dozen families that formed the highest and iciest grades. Once when the colonel and Mildred were driving through town, the girl bowed to a young man who passed them.

  “Who the deuce was that?” said the colonel airily. “Seems to me I ought to know that fellow.”

  “That’s the man that saved your life from the 5:30,” replied Mildred.

  “See here, young lady,” cried the colonel angrily, “don’t you take his part against me.”

  About a year later came the great railway strike. The papers of the city foreshadowed it vaguely from time to time, but no one apparently took the matter in a serious way. There had been threats and rumors of threats but the general public had seemed to view them as idle bombast. At last, however, the true situation displayed itself suddenly and vividly. Almost the entire force of the great P.C.C. and W.U. system went on strike. The people of the city awoke one morning to find the gray sky of dawn splashed with a bright crimson color. The strikers had set ablaze one of the company’s shops in the suburbs and the light from it flashed out a red ominous signal of warning foretelling the woe and despair of the struggle that was to ensue. Rumors came that the men usually so sober, industrious, and imperturbable were running in a wild mob, raving and destroying. Whereupon, the people who had laughed to scorn any idea of being prepared for this upheaval began to assiduously abuse the authorities for not being ready to meet it.

  That morning Tom, in his shirt sleeves, went into the back part of his shop to direct some of his workmen about a certain job, and when he came out he was well covered by as honest a coating of grime and soot as was ever worn by journeyman. He went to the sink to dispose of this adornment and while there he heard his men talking of the strike. One was saying: “Yes, sir; sure as th’ dickens! They say they’re goin’ t’ burn th’ president’s house an’ everybody in it.” Tom’s body stiffened at these words. He felt himself tur
n cold. A moment later he left the shop forgetting his coat, forgetting his covering of soot and grime.

  In the main streets of the city there was no evident change. The horses of the jangling streetcars still slipped and strained in the deep mud into which the snow had been churned. The store windows were gay with the color of Christmas. Innumerable turkeys hung before each butcher’s shop. Upon the walks the businessmen had formed into little eager groups discussing the domestic calamity. Against the leaden-hued sky, over the tops of the buildings, arose a great leaning pillar of smoke marking the spot upon which stood the burning shop.

  Tom hurried on through that part of town which was composed of little narrow streets with tiny gray houses on either side. There he saw a concourse of Slavs, Polacks, Italians and Hungarians, laborers of the company, floundering about in the mud and raving, conducting a riot in their own inimitable way. They seemed as bloodthirsty, pitiless, mad, as starved wolves. And Tom presented a figure no less grim as he ran through the crowd, coatless and now indeed hatless, with pale skin showing through the grime. He went until he came to a stretch of commons across which he could see the Fortmans’ house standing serenely with no evidences of riot about it. He moderated his pace then.

  When he had gone about halfway across this little snow-covered common, he looked back, for he heard cries. Across the white fields, winding along the muddy road, there came a strange procession. It resembled a parade of Parisians at the time of the first revolution. Fists were wildly waving and at times hoarse voices rang out. It was as if this crowd was delirious from drink. As it came nearer Tom could see women—gaunt and ragged creatures with inflamed visages and rolling eyes. There were men with dark, sinister faces whom Tom had never before seen. They had emerged from the earth, so to speak, to engage in this carousal of violence. And from this procession there came continual threatening ejaculations, shrill cries for revenge, and querulous voices of hate, that made a sort of barbaric hymn, a pagan chant of savage battle and death.