In all cases the heroes were backward enough. It was their followings who agitated the question. And so Johnnie Hedge was more or less beset.
He maintained his bashfulness. He backed away from altercation. It was plain that to bring matters to a point he must be forced into a quarrel. It was also plain that the proper person for the business was some boy who could whip Willie Dalzel, and these formidable warriors were distinctly averse to undertaking the new contract. It is a kind of law in boy life that a quiet, decent, peace-loving lad is able to thrash a wide-mouthed talker. And so it had come to pass that by a peculiar system of elimination most of the real chiefs were quiet, decent, peace-loving boys, and they had no desire to engage in a fight with a boy on the sole ground that it was not known who could whip. Johnnie Hedge attended his affairs, they attended their affairs, and around them waged this discussion of relative merit. Jimmie Trescott took a prominent part in these arguments. He contended that Johnnie Hedge could thrash any boy in the world. He was certain of it, and to any one who opposed him he said, “You just get one of those smashes in the eye, and then you’ll see.” In the meantime there was a grand and impressive silence in the direction of Willie Dalzel. He had gathered remnants of his clan, but the main parts of his sovereignty were scattered to the winds. He was an enemy.
Owing to the circumspect behavior of the new boy, the commotions on the school grounds came to nothing. He was often asked, “Kin you lick him?” And he invariably replied, “I dun’no.” This idea of waging battle with the entire world appalled him.
A war for complete supremacy of the tribe which had been headed by Willie Dalzel was fought out in the country of the tribe. It came to pass that a certain half-dime blood-and-thunder pamphlet had a great vogue in the tribe at this particular time. This story relates the experience of a lad who began his career as cabin boy on a pirate ship. Throughout the first fifteen chapters he was rope’s-ended from one end of the ship to the other end, and very often he was felled to the deck by a heavy fist. He lived through enough hardships to have killed a battalion of Turkish soldiers, but in the end he rose upon them. Yes, he rose upon them. Hordes of pirates fell before his intrepid arm, and in the last chapters of the book he is seen jauntily careering on his own hook as one of the most callous pirate captains that ever sailed the seas.
Naturally, when this tale was thoroughly understood by the tribe, they had to dramatize it, although it was a dramatization that would gain no royalties for the author. Now it was plain that the urchin who was cast for the cabin boy’s part would lead a life throughout the first fifteen chapters which would attract few actors. Willie Dalzel developed a scheme by which some small lad would play cabin boy during this period of misfortune and abuse, and then, when the cabin boy came to the part where he slew all his enemies and reached his zenith, he, Willie Dalzel, should take the part.
This fugitive and disconnected rendering of a great play opened in Jimmie Trescott’s back garden. The path between the two lines of goose-berry bushes was elected unanimously to be the ship. Then Willie Dalzel insisted that Homer Phelps should be the cabin boy. Homer tried the position for a time, and then elected that he would resign in favor of some other victim. There was no other applicant to succeed him, whereupon it became necessary to press some boy. Jimmie Trescott was a great actor, as is well known, but he steadfastly refused to engage for the part. Ultimately they seized upon little Dan Earl, whose disposition was so milky and docile that he would do whatever anybody asked of him. But Dan Earl made the one firm revolt of his life after trying existence as cabin boy for some ten minutes. Willie Dalzel was in despair. Then he suddenly sighted the little brother of Johnnie Hedge, who had come into the garden and in a poor-little-stranger sort of fashion was looking wistfully at the play. When he was invited to become the cabin boy he accepted joyfully, thinking that it was his initiation into the tribe. Then they proceeded to give him the rope’s-end and to punch him with a realism which was not altogether painless. Directly he began to cry out. They exhorted him not to cry out, not to mind it, but still they continued to hurt him.
There was a commotion among the gooseberry bushes, two branches were swept aside, and Johnnie Hedge walked down upon them. Every boy stopped in his tracks. Johnnie was boiling with rage.
“Who hurt him?” he said, ferociously. “Did you?” He had looked at Willie Dalzel.
Willie Dalzel began to mumble: “We was on’y playin’. Wasn’t nothin’ fer him to cry fer.”
The new boy had at his command some big phrases, and he used them. “I am goin’ to whip you within an inch of your life. I am goin’ to tan the hide off’n you.” And immediately there was a mixture—an infusion—of two boys which looked as if it had been done by a chemist. The other children stood back, stricken with horror. But out of this whirl they presently perceived the figure of Willie Dalzel seated upon the chest of the Hedge boy.
“Got enough?” asked Willie, hoarsely.
“No,” choked out the Hedge boy. Then there was another flapping and floundering, and finally another calm.
“Got enough?” asked Willie.
“No,” said the Hedge boy. A sort of war cloud again puzzled the sight of the observers. Both combatants were breathless, bloodless in their faces, and very weak.
“Got enough?” said Willie.
“No,” said the Hedge boy. The carnage was again renewed. All the spectators were silent but Johnnie Hedge’s little brother, who shrilly exhorted him to continue the struggle. But it was not plain that the Hedge boy needed any encouragement, for he was crying bitterly, and it has been explained that when a boy cried it was a bad time to hope for peace. He had managed to wriggle over upon his hands and knees. But Willie Dalzel was tenaciously gripping him from the back, and it seemed that his strength would spend itself in futility. The bear cub seemed to have the advantage of the working model of the windmill. They heaved, uttered strange words, wept, and the sun looked down upon them with steady, unwinking eye.
Peter Washington came out of the stable and observed this tragedy of the back garden. He stood transfixed for a moment, and then ran toward it, shouting: “Hi! What’s all dish yere? Hi! Stopper dat, stopper dat, you two! For Ian’ sake, what’s all dish yere?” He grabbed the struggling boys and pulled them apart. He was stormy and fine in his indignation. “For Ian’ sake! You two kids act like you gwine mad dogs. Stopper dat!” The whitened, tearful, soiled combatants, their clothing all awry, glared fiercely at each other as Peter stood between them, lecturing. They made several futile attempts to circumvent him and again come to battle. As he fended them off with his open hands he delivered his reproaches at Jimmie. “I’s s’prised at you! I suhtainly is!”
“Why?” said Jimmie. “I ’ain’t done nothin’. What have I done?”
“Y-y-you done ’courage dese yere kids ter scrap,” said Peter, virtuously.
“Me?” cried Jimmie. “I ’ain’t had nothin’ to do with it.”
“I raikon you ’ain’t,” retorted Peter, with heavy sarcasm. “I raikon you been er-prayin’, ’ain’t you?” Turning to Willie Dalzel, he said, “You jest take an’ run erlong outer dish yere or I’ll jest nachually take an’ damnearkill you.” Willie Dalzel went. To the new boy Peter said: “You look like you had some saince, but I raikon you don’t know no more’n er rabbit. You jest take an’ trot erlong off home, an’ don’ lemme caitch you round yere er-fightin’ or I’ll break yer back.” The Hedge boy moved away with dignity, followed by his little brother. The latter, when he had placed a sufficient distance between himself and Peter, played his fingers at his nose and called out: “Nig-ger-r-r! Nig-ger-r-r!”
Peter Washington’s resentment poured out upon Jimmie. “ ’Pears like you never would understan’ you ain’t reg’lar common trash. You take an’ ’sociate with an’body what done come erlong.”
“Aw, go on,” retorted Jimmie, profanely. “Go soak your head, Pete.”
The remaining boys retired to the street, whereupon they perceived
Willie Dalzel in the distance. He ran to them.
“I licked him!” he shouted, exultantly. “I licked him! Didn’t I, now?”
From the Whilomville point of view he was entitled to a favorable answer. They made it. “Yes,” they said, “you did.”
“I run in,” cried Willie, “an’ I grabbed ’im, an’ afore he knew what it was I throwed ’im. An’ then it was easy.” He puffed out his chest and smiled like an English recruiting-sergeant. “An’ now,” said he, suddenly facing Jimmie Trescott, “whose side were you on?”
The question was direct and startling. Jimmie gave back two paces. “He licked you once,” he explained, haltingly.
“He never saw the day when he could lick one side of me. I could lick him with my left hand tied behind me. Why, I could lick him when I was asleep.” Willie Dalzel was magnificent.
A gate clicked, and Johnnie Hedge was seen to be strolling toward them. “You said,” he remarked, coldly, “you licked me, didn’t you?”
Willie Dalzel stood his ground. “Yes,” he said, stoutly.
“Well, you’re a liar,” said the Hedge boy.
“You’re another,” retorted Willie.
“No, I ain’t, either, but you’re a liar.”
“You’re another,” retorted Willie.
“Don’t you dare tell me I’m a liar, or I’ll smack your mouth for you,” said the Hedge boy.
“Well, I did, didn’t I?” barked Willie. “An’ wha’ che goin’ to do about it?”
“I’m goin’ to lam you,” said the Hedge boy.
He approached to attack warily, and the other boys held their breaths. Willie Dalzel winced back a pace. “Hol’ on a minute,” he cried, raising his palm. “I’m not——”
But the comic windmill was again in motion, and between gasps from his exertions Johnnie Hedge remarked, “I’ll show—you—whether—you kin—lick me—or not.”
The first blows did not reach home on Willie, for he backed away with expedition, keeping up his futile cry, “Hol’ on a minute.” Soon enough a swinging fist landed on his cheek. It did not knock him down, but it hurt him a little and frightened him a great deal. He suddenly opened his mouth to an amazing and startling extent, tilted back his head, and howled, while his eyes, glittering with tears, were fixed upon this scowling butcher of a Johnnie Hedge. The latter was making slow and vicious circles, evidently intending to renew the massacre.
But the spectators really had been desolated and shocked by the terrible thing which had happened to Willie Dalzel. They now cried out: “No, no; don’t hit ’im any more! Don’t hit ’im any more!”
Jimmie Trescott, in a panic of bravery, yelled, “We’ll all jump on you if you do.”
The Hedge boy paused, at bay. He breathed angrily, and flashed his glance from lad to lad. They still protested: “No, no; don’t hit ’im any more. Don’t hit ’im any more.”
“I’ll hammer him until he can’t stand up,” said Johnnie, observing that they all feared him. “I’ll fix him so he won’t know hisself, an’ if any of you kids bother with me—”
Suddenly he ceased, he trembled, he collapsed. The hand of one approaching from behind had laid hold upon his ear, and it was the hand of one whom he knew.
The other lads heard a loud, iron-filing voice say, “Caught ye at it again, ye brat, ye.” They saw a dreadful woman with gray hair, with a sharp red nose, with bare arms, with spectacles of such magnifying quality that her eyes shone through them like two fierce white moons. She was Johnnie Hedge’s mother. Still holding Johnnie by the ear, she swung out swiftly and dexterously, and succeeded in boxing the ears of two boys before the crowd regained its presence of mind and stampeded. Yes, the war for supremacy was over, and the question was never again disputed. The supreme power was Mrs. Hedge.
July, 1900
[Harper’s Magazine, Vol. 101, pp. 216–221.]
* Whilomville Stories.
MANACLED
In the First Act there had been a farm scene, wherein real horses had drunk real water out of real buckets, afterward dragging a real wagon off stage L. The audience was consumed with admiration of this play, and the great Theater Nouveau rang to its roof with the crowd’s plaudits.
The Second Act was now well advanced. The hero, cruelly victimized by his enemies, stood in prison garb, panting with rage, while two brutal warders fastened real handcuffs on his wrists and real anklets on his ankles. And the hovering villain sneered.
“ ’Tis well, Aubrey Pettingill,” said the prisoner. “You have so far succeeded; but, mark you, there will come a time—”
The villain retorted with a cutting allusion to the young lady whom the hero loved.
“Curse you,” cried the hero, and he made as if to spring upon this demon; but, as the pitying audience saw, he could only take steps four inches long.
Drowning the mocking laughter of the villain came cries from both the audience and the people in back of the wings. “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Throughout the great house resounded the roaring crashes of a throng of human beings moving in terror, and even above this noise could be heard the screams of women more shrill than whistles. The building hummed and shook; it was like a glade which holds some bellowing cataract of the mountains. Most of the people who were killed on the stairs still clutched their playbills in their hands as if they had resolved to save them at all costs.
The Theater Nouveau fronted upon a street which was not of the first importance, especially at night, when it only aroused when the people came to the theater, and aroused again when they came out to go home. On the night of the fire, at the time of the scene between the enchained hero and his tormentor, the thoroughfare echoed with only the scraping shovels of some streetcleaners, who were loading carts with blackened snow and mud. The gleam of lights made the shadowed pavement deeply blue, save where lay some yellow plum-like reflection.
Suddenly a policeman came running frantically along the street. He charged upon the firebox on a corner. Its red light touched with flame each of his brass buttons and the municipal shield. He pressed a lever. He had been standing in the entrance of the theater chatting to the lonely man in the box office. To send an alarm was a matter of seconds.
Out of the theater poured the first hundreds of fortunate ones, and some were not altogether fortunate. Women, their bonnets flying, cried out tender names; men, white as death, scratched and bleeding, looked wildly from face to face. There were displays of horrible blind brutality by the strong. Weaker men clutched and clawed like cats. From the theater itself came the howl of a gale.
The policeman’s fingers had flashed into instant life and action the most perfect counterattack to the fire. He listened for some seconds, and presently he heard the thunder of a charging engine. She swept around a corner, her three shining enthrilled horses leaping. Her consort, the hosecart, roared behind her. There were the loud clicks of the steel-shod hoofs, hoarse shouts, men running, the flash of lights, while the crevice-like streets resounded with the charges of other engines.
At the first cry of fire, the two brutal warders had dropped the arms of the hero and run off the stage with the villain. The hero cried after them angrily: “Where are you going? Here, Pete—Tom—you’ve left me chained up, damn you!”
The body of the theater now resembled a mad surf amid rocks, but the hero did not look at it. He was filled with fury at the stupidity of the two brutal warders, in forgetting that they were leaving him manacled. Calling loudly, he hobbled off stage L., taking steps four inches long.
Behind the scenes he heard the hum of flames. Smoke, filled with sparks sweeping on spiral courses, rolled thickly upon him. Suddenly his face turned chalk-color beneath his skin of manly bronze for the stage. His voice shrieked: “Pete—Tom—damn you—come back—you’ve left me chained up.”
He had played in this theater for seven years, and he could find his way without light through the intricate passages which mazed out behind the stage. He knew that it was a long way to the street door.
There were stairs to descend. From the top of this flight he tried to fall feet first. He precipitated himself in a way that would have broken his hip under common conditions. But every step seemed covered with glue, and on almost every one he stuck for a moment. He could not even succeed in falling downstairs. Ultimately he reached the bottom, windless from the struggle.
There were stairs to climb. At the foot of the flight he lay for an instant with his mouth close to the floor, trying to breathe. Then he tried to scale this frightful precipice up the face of which many an actress had gone at a canter.
Each succeeding step arose eight inches from its fellow. The hero dropped to a seat on the third step, and pulled his feet to the second step. From this position he lifted himself to a seat on the fourth step. He had not gone far in this manner before his frenzy caused him to lose his balance, and he rolled to the foot of the flight. After all, he could fall downstairs.
He lay there whispering. “They all got out but I. All but I.” Beautiful flames flashed above him; some were crimson, some were orange, and here and there were tongues of purple, blue, green.
A curiously calm thought came into his head. “What a fool I was not to foresee this! I shall have Rogers furnish manacles of papier-mâché tomorrow.”
The thunder of the fire-lions made the theater have a palsy.
Suddenly the hero beat his handcuffs against the wall, cursing them in a loud wail. Blood started from under his fingernails. Soon he began to bite the hot steel, and blood fell from his blistered mouth. He raved like a wolf.
Peace came to him again. There were charming effects amid the flames.… He felt very cool, delightfully cool.… “They’ve left me chained up.”
The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane Page 106