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Men, Women, and Boats

S >> Stephen Crane >> Men, Women, and Boats




"Hully Jee, dis is a new breed. They've got can-openers on their feet."
He continued in a violent tirade.

The young man hastily unlocked his closet and took out his shoes and
hat. As he sat on the side of the cot lacing his shoes, he glanced about
and saw that daylight had made the room comparatively commonplace and
uninteresting. The men, whose faces seemed stolid, serene or absent,
were engaged in dressing, while a great crackle of bantering
conversation arose.

A few were parading in unconcerned nakedness. Here and there were men of
brawn, whose skins shone clear and ruddy. They took splendid poses,
standing massively like chiefs. When they had dressed in their ungainly
garments there was an extraordinary change. They then showed bumps and
deficiencies of all kinds.

There were others who exhibited many deformities. Shoulders were
slanting, humped, pulled this way and pulled that way. And notable among
these latter men was the little fat man who had refused to allow his
head to be glorified. His pudgy form, builded like a pear, bustled to
and fro, while he swore in fishwife fashion. It appeared that some
article of his apparel had vanished.

The young man attired speedily, and went to his friend the assassin. At
first the latter looked dazed at the sight of the youth. This face
seemed to be appealing to him through the cloud wastes of his memory. He
scratched his neck and reflected. At last he grinned, a broad smile
gradually spreading until his countenance was a round illumination.
"Hello, Willie," he cried cheerily.

"Hello," said the young man. "Are yeh ready t' fly?"

"Sure." The assassin tied his shoe carefully with some twine and came
ambling.

When he reached the street the young man experienced no sudden relief
from unholy atmospheres. He had forgotten all about them, and had been
breathing naturally, and with no sensation of discomfort or distress.

He was thinking of these things as he walked along the street, when he
was suddenly startled by feeling the assassin's hand, trembling with
excitement, clutching his arm, and when the assassin spoke, his voice
went into quavers from a supreme agitation.

"I'll be hully, bloomin' blowed if there wasn't a feller with a
nightshirt on up there in that joint."

The youth was bewildered for a moment, but presently he turned to smile
indulgently at the assassin's humor.

"Oh, you're a d--d liar," he merely said.

Whereupon the assassin began to gesture extravagantly, and take oath by
strange gods. He frantically placed himself at the mercy of remarkable
fates if his tale were not true.

"Yes, he did! I cross m' heart thousan' times!" he protested, and at the
moment his eyes were large with amazement, his mouth wrinkled in
unnatural glee.

"Yessir! A nightshirt! A hully white nightshirt!"

"You lie!"

"No, sir! I hope ter die b'fore I kin git anudder ball if there wasn't a
jay wid a hully, bloomin' white nightshirt!"

His face was filled with the infinite wonder of it. "A hully white
nightshirt," he continually repeated.

The young man saw the dark entrance to a basement restaurant. There was
a sign which read "No mystery about our hash"! and there were other age-
stained and world-battered legends which told him that the place was
within his means. He stopped before it and spoke to the assassin. "I
guess I'll git somethin' t' eat."

At this the assassin, for some reason, appeared to be quite embarrassed.
He gazed at the seductive front of the eating place for a moment. Then
he started slowly up the street. "Well, good-bye, Willie," he said
bravely.

For an instant the youth studied the departing figure. Then he called
out, "Hol' on a minnet." As they came together he spoke in a certain
fierce way, as if he feared that the other would think him to be
charitable. "Look-a-here, if yeh wanta git some breakfas' I'll lend yeh
three cents t' do it with. But say, look-a-here, you've gota git out an'
hustle. I ain't goin' t' support yeh, or I'll go broke b'fore night. I
ain't no millionaire."

"I take me oath, Willie," said the assassin earnestly, "th' on'y thing I
really needs is a ball. Me t'roat feels like a fryin'-pan. But as I
can't get a ball, why, th' next bes' thing is breakfast, an' if yeh do
that for me, b'Gawd, I say yeh was th' whitest lad I ever see."

They spent a few moments in dexterous exchanges of phrases, in which
they each protested that the other was, as the assassin had originally
said, "a respecter'ble gentlem'n." And they concluded with mutual
assurances that they were the souls of intelligence and virtue. Then
they went into the restaurant.

There was a long counter, dimly lighted from hidden sources. Two or
three men in soiled white aprons rushed here and there.

The youth bought a bowl of coffee for two cents and a roll for one cent.
The assassin purchased the same. The bowls were webbed with brown seams,
and the tin spoons wore an air of having emerged from the first pyramid.
Upon them were black mosslike encrustations of age, and they were bent
and scarred from the attacks of long-forgotten teeth. But over their
repast the wanderers waxed warm and mellow. The assassin grew affable as
the hot mixture went soothingly down his parched throat, and the young
man felt courage flow in his veins.

Memories began to throng in on the assassin, and he brought forth long
tales, intricate, incoherent, delivered with a chattering swiftness as
from an old woman. "--great job out'n Orange. Boss keep yeh hustlin'
though all time. I was there three days, and then I went an' ask 'im t'
lend me a dollar. 'G-g-go ter the devil,' he ses, an' I lose me job."

"South no good. Damn niggers work for twenty-five an' thirty cents a
day. Run white man out. Good grub, though. Easy livin'."

"Yas; useter work little in Toledo, raftin' logs. Make two or three
dollars er day in the spring. Lived high. Cold as ice, though, in the
winter."

"I was raised in northern N'York. O-a-ah, yeh jest oughto live there. No
beer ner whisky, though, way off in the woods. But all th' good hot grub
yeh can eat. B'Gawd, I hung around there long as I could till th' ol'
man fired me. 'Git t' hell outa here, yeh wuthless skunk, git t' hell
outa here, an' go die,' he ses. 'You're a hell of a father,' I ses, 'you
are,' an' I quit 'im."

As they were passing from the dim eating place, they encountered an old
man who was trying to steal forth with a tiny package of food, but a
tall man with an indomitable moustache stood dragon fashion, barring the
way of escape. They heard the old man raise a plaintive protest. "Ah,
you always want to know what I take out, and you never see that I
usually bring a package in here from my place of business."

As the wanderers trudged slowly along Park Row, the assassin began to
expand and grow blithe. "B'Gawd, we've been livin' like kings," he said,
smacking appreciative lips.

"Look out, or we'll have t' pay fer it t'night," said the youth with
gloomy warning.

But the assassin refused to turn his gaze toward the future. He went
with a limping step, into which he injected a suggestion of lamblike
gambols. His mouth was wreathed in a red grin.

In the City Hall Park the two wanderers sat down in the little circle of
benches sanctified by traditions of their class. They huddled in their
old garments, slumbrously conscious of the march of the hours which for
them had no meaning.

The people of the street hurrying hither and thither made a blend of
black figures changing yet frieze-like. They walked in their good
clothes as upon important missions, giving no gaze to the two wanderers
seated upon the benches. They expressed to the young man his infinite
distance from all that he valued. Social position, comfort, the
pleasures of living, were unconquerable kingdoms. He felt a sudden awe.

And in the background a multitude of buildings, of pitiless hues and
sternly high, were to him emblematic of a nation forcing its regal head
into the clouds, throwing no downward glances; in the sublimity of its
aspirations ignoring the wretches who may flounder at its feet. The roar
of the city in his ear was to him the confusion of strange tongues,
babbling heedlessly; it was the clink of coin, the voice if the city's
hopes which were to him no hopes.

He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from under the lowered rim
of his hat began to glance guiltily, wearing the criminal expression
that comes with certain convictions.




THE DUEL THAT WAS NOT FOUGHT


Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could
throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral. There were men on
Cherry Street who had whipped him five times, but they all knew that
Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as if nothing had happened.

Once he and two friends had been away up on Eighth Avenue, far out of
their country, and upon their return journey that evening they stopped
frequently in saloons until they were as independent of their
surroundings as eagles, and cared much less about thirty days on
Blackwell's.

On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where there was a good
deal of lamp-glare and polished wood to be seen from the outside, and
within, the mellow light shone on much furbished brass and more polished
wood. It was a better saloon than they were in the habit of seeing, but
they did not mind it. They sat down at one of the little tables that
were in a row parallel to the bar and ordered beer. They blinked
stolidly at the decorations, the bartender, and the other customers.
When anything transpired they discussed it with dazzling frankness, and
what they said of it was as free as air to the other people in the
place.

At midnight there were few people in the saloon. Patsy and his friends
still sat drinking. Two well-dressed men were at another table, smoking
cigars slowly and swinging back in their chairs. They occupied
themselves with themselves in the usual manner, never betraying by a
wink of an eyelid that they knew that other folk existed. At another
table directly behind Patsy and his companions was a slim little Cuban,
with miraculously small feet and hands, and with a youthful touch of
down upon his lip. As he lifted his cigarette from time to time his
little finger was bended in dainty fashion, and there was a green flash
when a huge emerald ring caught the light. The bartender came often with
his little brass tray. Occasionally Patsy and his two friends
quarrelled.

Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight noise and Patsy
turned his head to observe him. Then Patsy made a careless and rather
loud comment to his two friends. He used a word which is no more than
passing the time of day down in Cherry Street, but to the Cuban it was a
dagger-point. There was a harsh scraping sound as a chair was pushed
swiftly back.

The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes were shining with a rage
that flashed there like sparks as he glared at Patsy. His olive face had
turned a shade of grey from his anger. Withal his chest was thrust out
in portentous dignity, and his hand, still grasping his wine-glass, was
cool and steady, the little finger still bended, the great emerald
gleaming upon it. The others, motionless, stared at him.

"Sir," he began ceremoniously. He spoke gravely and in a slow way, his
tone coming in a marvel of self-possessed cadences from between those
lips which quivered with wrath. "You have insult me. You are a dog, a
hound, a cur. I spit upon you. I must have some of your blood."

Patsy looked at him over his shoulder.

"What's th' matter wi' che?" he demanded. He did not quite understand
the words of this little man who glared at him steadily, but he knew
that it was something about fighting. He snarled with the readiness of
his class and heaved his shoulders contemptuously. "Ah, what's eatin'
yeh? Take a walk! You hain't got nothin' t' do with me, have yeh? Well,
den, go sit on yerself."

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 curved in that
wide sneer with which he would confront an angel of darkness. He arose
suddenly in his seat and came towards 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 fairly to 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 one only 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 'til 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 as
long as I kin."

As for the Cuban, his lithe 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 bended unconsciously in the posture
of a fencer. He had all the quick, springy movements of a skilful
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 d--n duels, I'm in it, understan'"

"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 d--n swords," he commanded. "Git yer swords.
Git 'em quick! I'll fight wi' che! I'll fight wid anyt'ing, too! See?
I'll fight yeh wid a knife an' fork if yeh say so! I'll fight yer
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 carbuncles, 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 t'ought 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't 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 yer wid swords! Sure I will! Come ahead, Dago! I'll fight
yeh anywheres wid anyt'ing! 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 with 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-given '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.




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 begin 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 expression 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 effects. 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!"

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