The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  Oh no, they would not! He knew them better. And then suddenly he remembered with what delightful expectations he had raced to this grove, and self-pity overwhelmed him, and he thought he wanted to die and make every one feel sorry.

  The young lady in white duck and a sailor hat looked at him, and then spoke to her sister, Mrs. Earl. “Who’s that hovering in the distance, Emily?”

  Mrs. Earl peered. “Why, it’s Jimmie Trescott! Jimmie, come to the picnic! Why don’t you come to the picnic, Jimmie?” He began to sidle toward the cloth.

  But at Mrs. Earl’s call there was another outburst from many of the children. “He’s got his picnic in a pail! In a pail! Got it in a pail!”

  Minnie Phelps was a shrill fiend. “Oh, mamma, he’s got it in that pail! See! Isn’t it funny? Isn’t it dreadful funny?”

  “What ghastly prigs children are, Emily!” said the young lady. “They are spoiling that boy’s whole day, breaking his heart, the little cats! I think I’ll go over and talk to him.”

  “Maybe you had better not,” answered Mrs. Earl, dubiously. “Somehow these things arrange themselves. If you interfere, you are likely to prolong everything.”

  “Well, I’ll try, at least,” said the young lady.

  At the second outburst against him Jimmie had crouched down by a tree, half hiding behind it, half pretending that he was not hiding behind it. He turned his sad gaze toward the lake. The bit of water seen through the shadows seemed perpendicular, a slate-colored wall. He heard a noise near him, and turning he perceived the young lady looking down at him. In her hand she held plates. “May I sit near you?” she asked, coolly.

  Jimmie could hardly believe his ears. After disposing herself and the plates upon the pine needles, she made brief explanation. “They’re rather crowded, you see, over there. I don’t like to be crowded at a picnic, so I thought I’d come here. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Jimmie made haste to find his tongue. “Oh, I don’t mind! I like to have you here.” The ingenuous emphasis made it appear that the fact of his liking to have her there was in the nature of a law-dispelling phenomenon, but she did not smile.

  “How large is that lake?” she asked.

  Jimmie, falling into the snare, at once began to talk in the manner of a proprietor of the lake. “Oh, it’s almost twenty miles long, an’ in one place it’s almost four miles wide! an’ it’s deep too—awful deep—an’ it’s got real steamboats on it, an’—oh—lots of other boats, an’—an’—an’—”

  “Do you go out on it sometimes?”

  “Oh, lots of times! My father’s got a boat,” he said, eyeing her to note the effect of his words.

  She was correctly pleased and struck with wonder. “Oh, has he?” she cried, as if she never before had heard of a man owning a boat.

  Jimmie continued: “Yes, an’ it’s a grea’ big boat, too, with sails, real sails; an’ sometimes he takes me out in her too; an’ once he took me fishin’, an’ we had sandwiches, plenty of ’em, an’ my father he drank beer right out of the bottle—right out of the bottle!”

  The young lady was properly overwhelmed by this amazing intelligence. Jimmie saw the impression he had created, and he enthusiastically resumed his narrative: “An’ after, he let me throw the bottles in the water, and I throwed ’em ’way, ’way, ’way out. An’ they sank, an’—never comed up,” he concluded, dramatically.

  His face was glorified; he had forgotten all about the pail; he was absorbed in this communion with a beautiful lady who was so interested in what he had to say.

  She indicated one of the plates, and said, indifferently: “Perhaps you would like some of those sandwiches. I made them. Do you like olives? And there’s a deviled egg. I made that also.”

  “Did you really?” said Jimmie, politely. His face gloomed for a moment because the pail was recalled to his mind, but he timidly possessed himself of a sandwich.

  “Hope you are not going to scorn my deviled egg,” said his goddess. “I am very proud of it.” He did not; he scorned little that was on the plate.

  Their gentle intimacy was ineffable to the boy. He thought he had a friend, a beautiful lady, who liked him more than she did anybody at the picnic, to say the least. This was proved by the fact that she had Sung aside the luxuries of the spread cloth to sit with him, the exile. Thus early did he fall a victim to woman’s wiles.

  “Where do you live?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Oh, a long way from here! In New York.”

  His next question was put very bluntly. “Are you married?”

  “Oh, no!” she answered, gravely.

  Jimmie was silent for a time, during which he glanced shyly and furtively up at her face. It was evident that he was somewhat embarrassed. Finally he said, “When I grow up to be a man—”

  “Oh, that is some time yet!” said the beautiful lady.

  “But when I do, I—I should like to marry you.”

  “Well, I will remember it,” she answered; “but don’t talk of it now, because it’s such a long time; and—I wouldn’t wish you to consider yourself bound.” She smiled at him.

  He began to brag. “When I grow up to be a man, I’m goin’ to have lots an’ lots of money, an’ I’m goin’ to have a grea’ big house, an’ a horse an’ a shotgun, an’ lots an’ lots of books ’bout elephants an’ tigers, an’ lots an’ lots of ice cream an’ pie an’—caramels.” As before, she was impressed; he could see it. “An’ I’m goin’ to have lots an’ lots of children—’bout three hundred, I guess—an’ there won’t none of ’em be girls. They’ll all be boys—like me.”

  “Oh, my!” she said.

  His garment of shame was gone from him. The pail was dead and well buried. It seemed to him that months elapsed as he dwelt in happiness near the beautiful lady and trumpeted his vanity.

  At last there was a shout. “Come on! we’re going home.” The picnickers trooped out of the grove. The children wished to resume their jeering, for Jimmie still gripped his pail, but they were restrained by the circumstances. He was walking at the side of the beautiful lady.

  During this journey he abandoned many of his habits. For instance, he never traveled without skipping gracefully from crack to crack between the stones, or without pretending that he was a train of cars, or without some mumming device of childhood. But now he behaved with dignity. He made no more noise than a little mouse. He escorted the beautiful lady to the gate of the Earl home, where he awkwardly, solemnly, and wistfully shook hands in good-bye. He watched her go up the walk; the door clanged.

  On his way home he dreamed. One of these dreams was fascinating. Supposing the beautiful lady was his teacher in school! Oh, my! wouldn’t he be a good boy, sitting like a statuette all day long, and knowing every lesson to perfection, and—everything. And then supposing that a boy should sass her. Jimmie painted himself waylaying that boy on the homeward road, and the fate of the boy was a thing to make strong men cover their eyes with their hands. And she would like him more and more—more and more. And he—he would be a little god.

  But as he was entering his father’s grounds an appalling recollection came to him. He was returning with the bread-and-butter and the salmon untouched in the pail! He could imagine the cook, nine feet tall, waving her fist. “An’ so that’s what I took trouble for, is it? So’s you could bring it back? So’s you could bring it back?” He skulked toward the house like a marauding bushranger. When he neared the kitchen door he made a desperate rush past it, aiming to gain the stables and there secrete his guilt. He was nearing them, when a thunderous voice hailed him from the rear: “Jimmie Trescott, where you goin’ with that pail?”

  It was the cook. He made no reply, but plunged into the shelter of the stables. He whirled the lid from the pail and dashed its contents beneath a heap of blankets. Then he stood panting, his eyes on the door. The cook did not pursue, but she was bawling: “Jimmie Trescott, what you doin’ with that pail?”

  He came forth, swinging it. “Nothin’,” he said,
in virtuous protest.

  “I know better,” she said, sharply, as she relieved him of his curse.

  In the morning Jimmie was playing near the stable, when he heard a shout from Peter Washington, who attended Dr. Trescott’s horse: “Jim! Oh, Jim!”

  “What?”

  “Come yah.”

  Jimmie went reluctantly to the door of the stable, and Peter Washington asked: “Wut’s dish yer fish an’ brade doin’ unner dese yer blankups?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” answered Jimmie, indignantly.

  “Don’ tell me!” cried Peter Washington, as he flung it all away—“don’ tell me! When I fin’ fish an’ brade unner dese yer blankups, I don’ go an’ think dese yer ho’ses er yer pop’s put ’em. I know. An’ if I caitch enny more dish yer fish an’ brade in dish yer stable, I’ll tell yer pop.”

  January, 1900

  [Harper’s Magazine, Vol. 100, pp. 320–324.]

  * Whilomville Stories.

  THE CARRIAGE-LAMPS*

  It was the fault of a small nickel-plated revolver, a most incompetent weapon, which, wherever one aimed, would fling the bullet as the devil willed, and no man, when about to use it, could tell exactly what was in store for the surrounding country. This treasure had been acquired by Jimmie Trescott after arduous bargaining with another small boy. Jimmie wended homeward, patting his hip pocket at every three paces.

  Peter Washington, working in the carriage-house, looked out upon him with a shrewd eye. “Oh, Jim,” he called, “wut you got in yer hind pocket?”

  “Nothin’,” said Jimmie, feeling carefully under his jacket to make sure that the revolver wouldn’t fall out.

  Peter chuckled. “S’more foolishness, I raikon. You gwine be hung one day, Jim, you keep up all dish yer nonsense.”

  Jimmie made no reply, but went into the back garden, where he hid the revolver in a box under a lilac bush. Then he returned to the vicinity of Peter, and began to cruise to and fro in the offing, showing all the signals of one wishing to open treaty. “Pete,” he said, “how much does a box of cartridges cost?”

  Peter raised himself violently, holding in one hand a piece of harness, and in the other an old rag. “Ca’tridgers! Ca’tridgers! Lan’ sake! wut the kid want with ca’tridgers? Knew it! Knew it! Come home er-holdin’ on to his hind pocket like he got money in it. An’ now he want ca’tridgers.”

  Jimmie, after viewing with dismay the excitement caused by his question, began to move warily out of the reach of a possible hostile movement.

  “Ca’tridgers!” continued Peter, in scorn and horror. “Kid like you! No bigger’n er minute! Look yah, Jim, you done been swappin’ round, an’ you done got hol’ of er pistol!” The charge was dramatic.

  The wind was almost knocked out of Jimmie by this display of Peter’s terrible miraculous power, and as he backed away his feeble denials were more convincing than a confession.

  “I’ll tell yer pop!” cried Peter, in virtuous grandeur. “I’ll tell yer pop!”

  In the distance Jimmie stood appalled. He knew not what to do. The dread adult wisdom of Peter Washington had laid bare the sin, and disgrace stared at Jimmie.

  There was a whirl of wheels, and a high, lean trotting-mare spun Doctor Trescott’s buggy toward Peter, who ran forward busily. As the doctor climbed out, Peter, holding the mare’s head, began his denunciation: “Docteh, I gwine tell on Jim. He come home er-holdin’ on to his hind pocket, an’ proud like he won a tuhkey-raffle, an’ I sure know what he been up to, an’ I done challenge him, an’ he nev’ say he didn’t.”

  “Why, what do you mean?” said the doctor. “What’s this, Jimmie?”

  The boy came forward, glaring wrathfully at Peter. In fact, he suddenly was so filled with rage at Peter that he forgot all precautions. “It’s about a pistol,” he said, bluntly. “I’ve got a pistol. I swapped for it.”

  “I done tol’ ’im his pop wouldn’ stand no fiah-awms, an’ him a kid like he is. I done tol’ ’im. Lan’ sake! he strut like he was a soldier! Come in yere proud, an’ er-holdin’ on to his hind pocket. He think he was Jesse James, I raikon. But I done tol’ ’im his pop stan’ no sech foolishness. First thing—blam—he shoot his haid off. No, seh, he too tinety t’ come in yere erstruttin’ like he jest bought Main Street. I tol’ ’im. I done tol’ ’im—shawp. I don’ wanter be loafin’ round dis yer stable if Jim he gwine go shootin’ round an’ shootin’ round—blim—blam—blim—blam! No, seh. I retiahs. I retiahs. It’s all right if er grown man got er gun, but ain’t no kids come foolishin’ round me with fiah-awms. No, seh. I retiahs.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Peter!” said the doctor. “Where is this thing, Jimmie?”

  The boy went sulkily to the box under the lilac bush and returned with the revolver. “Here ’tis,” he said, with a glare over his shoulder at Peter. The doctor looked at the silly weapon in critical contempt.

  “It’s not much of a thing, Jimmie, but I don’t think you are quite old enough for it yet. I’ll keep it for you in one of the drawers of my desk.”

  Peter Washington burst out proudly: “I done tol’ ’im th’ docteh wouldn’ stan’ no traffickin’ round yere with fiah-awms. I done tol’ ’im.”

  Jimmie and his father went together into the house, and as Peter unharnessed the mare he continued his comments on the boy and the revolver. He was not cast down by the absence of hearers. In fact, he usually talked better when there was no one to listen save the horses. But now his observations bore small resemblance to his earlier and public statements. Admiration and the keen family pride of a Southern negro who has been long in one place were now in his tone.

  “That boy! He’s er devil! When he get to be er man—wow! He’ll jes’ take an’ make things whirl round yere. Raikon we’ll all take er back seat when he come erlong er-raisin’ Cain.”

  He had unharnessed the mare, and with his back bent was pushing the buggy into the carriage-house.

  “Er pistol! An’ him no bigger than er minute!”

  A small stone whizzed past Peter’s head and clattered on the stable. He hastily dropped all occupation and struck a curious attitude. His right knee was almost up to his chin, and his arms were wreathed protectingly about his head. He had not looked in the direction from which the stone had come, but he had begun immediately to yell: “You Jim! Quit! Quit, I tell yer, Jim! Watch out! You gwine break somethin’, Jim!”

  “Yah!” taunted the boy, as with the speed and ease of a light-cavalryman he maneuvered in the distance. “Yah! Told on me, did you! Told on me, hey! There! How do you like that?” The missiles resounded against the stable.

  “Watch out, Jim! You gwine break something, Jim, I tell yer! Quit yer foolishness, Jim! Ow! Watch out, boy! I—”

  There was a crash. With diabolic ingenuity, one of Jimmie’s pebbles had entered the carriage-house and had landed among a row of carriage-lamps on a shelf, creating havoc which was apparently beyond all reason of physical law. It seemed to Jimmie that the racket of falling glass could have been heard in an adjacent county.

  Peter was a prophet who after persecution was suffered to recall everything to the mind of the persecutor. “There! Knew it! Knew it! Now I raikon you’ll quit. Hi! jes’ look ut dese yer lamps! Fer lan’ sake! Oh, now yer pop jes’ break ev’ry bone in yer body!”

  In the doorway of the kitchen the cook appeared with a startled face. Jimmie’s father and mother came suddenly out on the front veranda. “What was that noise?” called the doctor.

  Peter went forward to explain. “Jim he was er-heavin’ rocks at me, docteh, an’ erlong come one rock an’ go blam inter all th’ lamps an’ jes’ skitter ’em t’ bits. I declayah—”

  Jimmie, half blinded with emotion, was nevertheless aware of a lightning glance from his father, a glance which cowed and frightened him to the ends of his toes. He heard the steady but deadly tones of his father in a fury: “Go into the house and wait until I come.”

  Bowed in anguish, the boy
moved across the lawn and up the steps. His mother was standing on the veranda still gazing toward the stable. He loitered in the faint hope that she might take some small pity on his state. But she could have heeded him no less if he had been invisible. He entered the house.

  When the doctor returned from his investigation of the harm done by Jimmie’s hand, Mrs. Trescott looked at him anxiously, for she knew that he was concealing some volcanic impulses. “Well?” she asked.

  “It isn’t the lamps,” he said at first. He seated himself on the rail. “I don’t know what we are going to do with that boy. It isn’t so much the lamps as it is the other thing. He was throwing stones at Peter because Peter told me about the revolver. What are we going to do with him?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the mother. “We’ve tried almost everything. Of course much of it is pure animal spirits. Jimmie is not naturally vicious—”

  “Oh, I know,” interrupted the doctor, impatiently. “Do you suppose, when the stones were singing about Peter’s ears, he cared whether they were flung by a boy who was naturally vicious or a boy who was not? The question might interest him afterward, but at the time he was mainly occupied in dodging these effects of pure animal spirits.”

  “Don’t be too hard on the boy, Ned. There’s lots of time yet. He’s so young yet, and—I believe he gets most of his naughtiness from that wretched Dalzel boy. That Dalzel boy—well, he’s simply awful!” Then, with true motherly instinct to shift blame from her own boy’s shoulders, she proceeded to sketch the character of the Dalzel boy in lines that would have made that talented young vagabond stare. It was not admittedly her feeling that the doctor’s attention should be diverted from the main issue and his indignation divided among the camps, but presently the doctor felt himself burn with wrath for the Dalzel boy.

  “Why don’t you keep Jimmie away from him?” he demanded. “Jimmie has no business consorting with abandoned little predestined jailbirds like him. If I catch him on the place I’ll box his ears.”

  “It is simply impossible, unless we kept Jimmie shut up all the time,” said Mrs. Trescott. “I can’t watch him every minute of the day, and the moment my back is turned, he’s off.”