The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  One was from San Francisco, and one was from New York; but they resembled each other in appearance. This is an idiosyncrasy of geography.

  They were never apart in the City of Mexico, at any rate, excepting, perhaps, when one had retired to his hotel for a respite; and then the other was usually camped down at the office, sending up servants with clamorous messages: “Oh, get up, and come on down.”

  They were two lads—they were called the Kids—and far from their mothers. Occasionally some wise man pitied them, but he usually was alone in his wisdom; the other folk frankly were transfixed at the splendor of the audacity and endurance of these Kids.

  “When do those two boys ever sleep?” murmured a man, as he viewed them entering a café about eight o’clock one morning. Their smooth, infantile faces looked bright and fresh enough, at any rate. “Jim told me he saw them still at it about four-thirty this morning.”

  “Sleep?” ejaculated a companion, in a glowing voice. “They never sleep! They go to bed once in every two weeks.” His boast of it seemed almost a personal pride.

  “They’ll end with a crash, though, if they keep it up at this pace,” said a gloomy voice from behind a newspaper.

  The Café Colorado has a front of white and gold, in which are set larger plate glass windows than are commonly to be found in Mexico. Two little wings of willow, flip-flapping incessantly, serve as doors. Under them small stray dogs go furtively into the café, and are shied into the street again by the waiters. On the sidewalk there is always a decorative effect in loungers, ranging from the newly arrived and superior tourist to the old veteran of the silver mines, bronzed by violent suns. They contemplate, with various shades of interest, the show of the street—the red, purple, dusty white, glaring forth against the walls in the furious sunshine.

  One afternoon the Kids strolled into the Café Colorado. A half-dozen of the men who sat smoking and reading with a sort of Parisian effect at the little tables which lined two sides of the room looked up, and bowed, smiling; and although this coming of the Kids was anything but an unusual event, at least a dozen men wheeled in their seats to stare after them. Three waiters polished tables, and moved chairs noisily, and appeared to be eager. Distinctly these Kids were of importance.

  Behind the distant bar the tall form of old Pop himself awaited them, smiling with broad geniality, “Well, my boys, how are you?” he cried in a voice of profound solicitude. He allowed five or six of his customers to languish in the care of Mexican bartenders, while he himself gave his eloquent attention to the Kids, lending all the dignity of a great event to their arrival. “How are the boys today, eh?”

  “You’re a smooth old guy,” said one, eyeing him. “Are you giving us this welcome so we won’t notice it when you push your worst whiskey at us?”

  Pop turned in appeal from one Kid to the other Kid. “There, now! Hear that, will you?” He assumed an oratorical pose. “Why, my boys, you always get the best—the very best—that this house has got.”

  “Yes, we do!” The Kids laughed. “Well, bring it out, anyhow; and if it’s the same you sold us last night, we’ll grab your cash register and run.”

  Pop whirled a bottle along the bar, and then gazed at it with a rapt expression. “Fine as silk,” he murmured. “Now just taste that, and if it isn’t the finest whiskey you ever put in your face, why, I’m a liar, that’s all.”

  The Kids surveyed him with scorn, and poured out their allowances. Then they stood for a time, insulting Pop about his whiskey. “Usually it tastes exactly like new parlor furniture,” said the San Francisco Kid. “Well, here goes; and you want to look out for your cash register.”

  “Your health, gentlemen,” said Pop, with a grand air; and as he wiped his bristling gray mustache he wagged his head with reference to the cash register question. “I could catch you before you got very far.”

  “Why, are you a runner?” said one, derisively.

  “You just bank on me, my boy,” said Pop, with deep emphasis. “I’m a flier.”

  The Kids set down their glasses suddenly, and looked at him. “You must be,” they said. Pop was tall and graceful, and magnificent in manner, but he did not display those qualities of form which mean speed in the animal. His hair was gray; his face was round and fat from much living. The buttons of his glittering white vest formed a fine curve, so that if the concave surface of a piece of barrel-hoop had been laid against Pop it would have touched each button. “You must be,” observed the Kids again.

  “Well, you can laugh all you like, but—no jolly, now, boys—I tell you I’m a winner. Why, I bet you I can skin anything in this town on a square go. When I kept my place in Eagle Pass, there wasn’t anybody who could touch me. One of these sure things came down from San Anton’. Oh, he was a runner, he was—one of these people with wings. Well, I skinned ’im. What? Certainly I did. Never touched me.”

  The Kids had been regarding him in grave silence, but at this moment they grinned, and said, quite in chorus: “Oh, you old liar!”

  Pop’s voice took on a whining tone of earnestness: “Boys, I’m telling it to you straight. I’m a flier.”

  One of the Kids had had a dreamy cloud in his eye, and he cried out suddenly: “Say, what a joke to play this on Freddie!”

  The other jumped ecstatically. “Oh, wouldn’t it be, though? Say, he wouldn’t do a thing but howl! He’d go crazy!”

  They looked at Pop as if they longed to be certain that he was, after all, a runner. “Say, now, Pop—on the level,” said one of them, wistfully, “can you run?”

  “Boys,” swore Pop, “I’m a peach! On the dead level, I’m a peach.”

  “By golly, I believe the old Indian can run,” said one to the other, as if they were alone in conference.

  “That’s what I can,” cried Pop.

  The Kids said: “Well, so long, old man.” They went to a table, and sat down. They ordered a salad. They were always ordering salads. This was because one Kid had a wild passion for salads, and the other did not care much. So at any hour of the day or night they might be seen ordering a salad. When this one came, they went into a sort of executive session. It was a very long consultation. Some of the men noted it; they said there was deviltry afoot. Occasionally the Kids laughed in supreme enjoyment of something unknown. The low rumble of wheels came from the street. Often could be heard the parrot-like cries of distant vendors. The sunlight streamed through the green curtains and made some little amber-colored flitterings on the marble floor. High up among the severe decorations of the ceiling—reminiscent of the days when the great building was a palace—a small white butterfly was wending through the cool air spaces. The long billiard hall stretched back to a vague gloom. The balls were always clicking, and one could see endless elbows crooking. Beggars slunk through the wicker doors, and were ejected by the nearest waiter.

  At last the Kids called Pop to them. “Sit down, Pop! Have a drink!” They scanned him carefully. “Say, now, Pop, on your solemn oath, can you run?”

  “Boys,” said Pop, piously, and raising his hand, “I can run like a rabbit.”

  “On your oath?”

  “On my oath.”

  “Can you beat Freddie?”

  Pop appeared to look at the matter from all sides. “Well, boys, I’ll tell you: no man is cocksure of anything in this world, and I don’t want to say that I can best any man; but I’ve seen Freddie run, and I’m ready to swear I can beat ’im. In a hundred yards I’d just about skin ’im neat—you understand—just about neat. Freddie is a good average runner, but I—you understand—I’m just—a little—bit—better.”

  The Kids had been listening with the utmost attention. Pop spoke the latter part slowly and meaningly. They thought that he intended them to see his great confidence.

  One said: “Pop, if you throw us in this thing, we’ll come here and drink for two weeks without paying. We’ll back you, and work a josh on Freddie! But oh—if you throw us!”

  To this menace Pop cried: “Boys, I�
�ll make the run of my life! On my oath!”

  The salad having vanished, the Kids arose. “All right, now,” they warned him. “If you play us for duffers, we’ll get square. Don’t you forget it!”

  “Boys, I’ll give you a race for your money. Bank on that. I may lose—understand, I may lose—no man can help meeting a better man, but I think I can skin ’im, and I’ll give you a run for your money, you bet.”

  “All right, then. But look here,” they told him. “You keep your face closed. Nobody but us gets in on this. Understand?”

  “Not a soul,” Pop declared.

  They left him, gesturing a last warning from the wicker doors.

  In the street they saw Benson, his cane gripped in the middle, strolling among the white-clothed, jabbering natives on the shady side. They semaphored to him eagerly, their faces a-shine with a plot. He came across cautiously, like a man who ventures into dangerous company.

  “We’re going to get up a race—Pop and Fred. Pop swears he can skin ’im. This is a tip; keep it dark, now. Say, won’t Freddie be hot?”

  Benson looked as if he had been compelled to endure these exhibitions of insanity for a century. “Oh, you fellows are off. Pop can’t beat Freddie. He’s an old bat. Why, it’s impossible. Pop can’t beat Freddie.”

  “Can’t he? Want to bet he can’t?” said the Kids. “There, now; let’s see—you’re talking so large.”

  “Well, you——”

  “Oh, bet! Bet, or else close your trap. That’s the way!”

  “How do you know you can pull off the race? Seen Freddie?”

  “No; but——”

  “Well, see him, then. Can’t bet now, with no race arranged. I’ll bet with you all right, all right. I’ll give you fellows a tip, though—you’re a pair of asses. Pop can’t run any faster than a brick schoolhouse.”

  The Kids scowled at him, and defiantly said: “Can’t he?”

  They left him, and went to the Casa Verde. Freddie, beautiful in his white jacket, was holding one of his innumerable conversations across the bar. He smiled when he saw them. “Where you boys been?” he demanded in a paternal tone. Almost all the proprietors of American cafés in the city used to adopt a paternal tone when they spoke to the Kids.

  “Oh, been ’round,” they replied.

  “Have a drink,” said the proprietor of the Casa Verde, forgetting his other social obligations.

  During the course of this ceremony one of the Kids remarked: “Freddie, Pop says he can beat you running.”

  “Does he?” observed Freddie, without excitement. He was used to various snares of the Kids.

  “That’s what. He says he can leave you at the wire, and not see you again.”

  “Well, he lies,” replied Freddie, placidly.

  “And I’ll bet you a bottle of wine that he can do it, too.”

  “Rats!” said Freddie.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” pursued a Kid. “You can throw bluffs all you like; but he can lose you in a hundred yard dash, you bet.”

  Freddie drank his whiskey, and then settled his elbows on the bar. “Say, now, what do you boys keep coming in here with some pipe-story all the time for? You can’t josh me. Do you think you can scare me about Pop? Why, I know I can beat ’im. He’s an old man. He can’t run with me; certainly not. Why, you fellows are just jollying me.”

  “Are we, though?” said the Kids. “You daresn’t bet the bottle of wine.”

  “Oh, of course I can bet you a bottle of wine,” said Freddie, disdainfully. “Nobody cares about a bottle of wine, but——”

  “Well, make it five, then,” advised one of the Kids.

  Freddie hunched his shoulders. “Why, certainly I will. Make it ten if you like, but——”

  “We do,” they said.

  “Ten, is it? All right; that goes.” A look of weariness came over Freddie’s face. “But you boys are foolish. I tell you, Pop is an old man. How can you expect him to run? Of course I’m no great runner, but, then, I’m young and healthy, and—and a pretty smooth runner, too. Pop is old and fat, and, then, he doesn’t do a thing but tank all day. It’s a cinch.”

  The Kids looked at him, and laughed rapturously. They waved their fingers at him. “Ah, there!” they cried. They meant that they had made a victim of him.

  But Freddie continued to expostulate: “I tell you, he couldn’t win—an old man like him. You’re crazy! Of course I know that you don’t care about ten bottles of wine, but then—to make such bets as that! You’re twisted.”

  “Are we, though?” cried the Kids, in mockery. They had precipitated Freddie into a long and thoughtful treatise on every possible chance of the thing as he saw it. They disputed with him from time to time, and jeered at him. He labored on through his argument. Their childish faces were bright with glee.

  In the midst of it Wilburson entered. Wilburson worked—not too much, though. He had hold of the Mexican end of a great importing house of New York, and, as he was a junior partner, he worked—but not too much, though. “What’s the howl?” he said.

  The Kids giggled. “We’ve got Freddie rattled.”

  “Why,” said Freddie, turning to him, “these two Indians are trying to tell me that Pop can beat me running.”

  “Like the devil!” said Wilburson, incredulously.

  “Well, can’t he?” demanded a Kid.

  “Why, certainly not,” said Wilburson, dismissing every possibility of it with a gesture. “That old bat? Certainly not! I’ll bet fifty dollars that Freddie——”

  “Take you,” said a Kid.

  “What?” said Wilburson. “That Freddie won’t beat Pop?”

  The Kid that had spoken now nodded his head.

  “That Freddie won’t beat Pop?” repeated Wilburson.

  “Yes; is it a go?”

  “Why, certainly,” retorted Wilburson. “Fifty? All right.”

  “Bet you five bottles on the side,” ventured the other Kid.

  “Why, certainly,” exploded Wilburson, wrathfully. “You fellows must take me for something easy. I’ll take all those kind of bets that I can get. Cer-tain-ly.”

  They settled the details. The course was to be paced off on the asphalt of one of the adjacent side streets; and then, at about eleven o’clock in the evening, the match would be run. Usually in Mexico the streets of a city grow lonely and dark but a little time after nine o’clock. There are occasional lurking figures, perhaps, but no crowds, lights, noise. The course would doubtless be undisturbed. As for the policemen in the vicinity, they—well, they were conditionally amiable.

  The Kids went to see Pop. They told him of the arrangements; and then in deep tones they said: “Oh, Pop, if you throw us!”

  Pop appeared to be a trifle shaken by the weight of responsibility thrust upon him, but he spoke out bravely: “Boys, I’ll pinch that race. Now you watch me. I’ll pinch it!”

  The Kids went then on some business of their own, for they were not seen again until evening. When they returned to the neighborhood of the Café Colorado, the usual evening stream of carriages was whirling along the calle. The wheels hummed on the asphalt, and the coachmen towered in their great sombreros. On the sidewalk a gazing crowd sauntered, the better classes self-satisfied and proud in their derby hats and cutaway coats, the lower classes muffling their dark faces in their blankets, slipping along in leather sandals. An electric light sputtered and fumed over the throng. The afternoon shower had left the pave wet and glittering; the air was still laden with the odor of rain on flowers, grass, leaves.

  In the Café Colorado a cosmopolitan crowd ate, drank, played billiards, gossiped, or read in the glaring yellow light. When the Kids entered, a large circle of men that had been gesticulating near the bar greeted them with a roar:

  “Here they are now!”

  “Oh, you pair of peaches!”

  “Say, got any more money to bet with?”

  The Kids smiled complacently. Old Colonel Hammigan, grinning, pushed his way to them. “Say, boy
s, we’ll all have a drink on you now, because you won’t have any money after eleven o’clock. You’ll be going down the backstairs in your stocking feet.”

  Although the Kids remained unnaturally serene and quiet, argument in the Café Colorado became tumultuous. Here and there a man who did not intend to bet ventured meekly that perchance Pop might win; and the others swarmed upon him in a whirlwind of angry denial and ridicule.

  Pop, enthroned behind the bar, looked over at this storm with a shadow of anxiety upon his face; this widespread flouting affected him; but the Kids looked blissfully satisfied with the tumult they had stirred.

  Blanco, honest man, ever worrying for his friends, came to them. “Say, you fellows, you aren’t betting too much? This thing looks kind of shaky, don’t it?”

  The faces of the Kids grew sober, and after consideration one said: “No; I guess we’ve got a good thing, Blanco. Pop is going to surprise them, I think.”

  “Well, don’t——”

  “All right, old boy. We’ll watch out.”

  From time to time the Kids had much business with certain orange, red, blue, purple, and green bills. They were making little memoranda on the backs of visiting cards. Pop watched them closely, the shadow still upon his face. Once he called to them; and when they came, he leaned over the bar, and said intensely: “Say, boys, remember, now—I might lose this race. Nobody can ever say for sure, and if I do—why——”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Pop,” said the Kids, reassuringly. “Don’t mind it. Do your durnedest, and let it go at that.”

  When they had left him, however, they went to a corner to consult. “Say, this is getting interesting. Are you in deep?” asked one, anxiously, of his friend.

  “Yes; pretty deep,” said the other, stolidly. “Are you?”

  “Deep as the devil,” replied the other, in the same tone.

  They looked at each other stonily, and went back to the crowd. Benson had just entered the café. He approached them with a gloating smile of victory. “Well, where’s all that money you were going to bet?”