The Stephen Crane Megapack. Stephen Crane
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 damn 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 damn 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