The Stephen Crane Megapack. Stephen Crane
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 gas-light 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!”
Of a sudden a cry of relief, a feminine announcement that the stars still hung, burst from her. For, according to some mystic process, the smoldering coals of the fire went aflame with sudden, fierce brilliance, splashing parts of the walls, the floor, the crude furniture, with a hue of blood-red. And in the light of this dramatic outburst of light, the girl saw her father seated at a table with his back turned toward her.
She entered the room, then, with an aggrieved air, her logic evidently concluding that somebody was to blame for her nervous fright. “Oh, yer on’y sulkin’ ’bout yer supper. I thought mebbe ye’d gone somewheres.”
Her father made no reply. She went over to a shelf in the corner, and, taking a little lamp, she lit it and put it where it would give her light as she took off her hat and jacket in front of the tiny mirror. Presently she began to bustle among the cooking utensils that were crowded into the sink, and as she worked she rattled talk at her father, apparently disdaining his mood.
“I’d ’a ’ come home earlier t’night, Dad, on’y that fly foreman, he kep’ me in th’ shop ’til half-past six. What a fool! He came t’ me, yeh know, an’ he ses, ‘Nell, I wanta give yeh some brotherly advice.’ Oh, I know him an’ his brotherly advice. ‘I wanta give yeh some brotherly advice. Yer too purty, Nell,’ he ses, ‘t’ be workin’ in this shop an’ paradin’ through the streets alone, without somebody t’ give yeh good brotherly advice, an’ I wanta warn yeh, Nell. I’m a bad man, but I ain’t as bad as some, an’ I wanta warn yeh.’ ‘Oh, g’long ’bout yer business,’ I ses. I know ’im. He’s like all of ’em, on’y he’s a little slyer. I know ’im. ‘You g’long ’bout yer business,’ I ses. Well, he ses after a while that he guessed some evenin’ he’d come up an’ see me. ‘Oh, yeh will,’ I ses, ‘yeh will? Well, you jest let my ol’ man ketch yeh comin’ foolin’ ’round our place. Yeh’ll wish yeh went t’ some other girl t’ give brotherly advice.’ ‘What th’ ’ell do I care fer yer father?’ he ses. ‘What’s he t’ me?’ ‘If he throws yeh downstairs, yeh’ll care for ’im,’ I ses. ‘Well,’ he ses, ‘I’ll come when ’e ain’t in, b’ Gawd, I’ll come when ’e ain’t in.’ ‘Oh, he’s allus in when it means takin’ care ’o me,’ I ses. ‘Don’t yeh fergit it, either. When it comes t’ takin’ care o’ his dorter, he’s right on deck every single possible time.’”
After a time, she turned and addressed cheery words to the old man. “Hurry up th’ fire, Daddie! We’ll have supper pretty soon.”
But still her father was silent, and his form in its sullen posture was motionless.
At this, the girl seemed to see the need of the inauguration of a feminine war against a man out of temper. She approached him breathing soft, coaxing syllables.
“Daddie! Oh, Daddie! O—o—oh, Daddie!”
It was apparent from a subtle quality of valor in her tones that this manner of onslaught upon his moods had usually been successful, but tonight it had no quick effect. The words, coming from her lips, were like the refrain of an old ballad, but the man remained stolid.
“Daddie! My Daddie! Oh, Daddie, are yeh mad at me, really—truly mad at me!”
She touched him lightly upon the arm. Should he have turned then he would have seen the fresh, laughing face, with dew-sparkling eyes, close to his own.
“Oh, Daddie! My Daddie! Pretty Daddie!”
She stole her arm about his neck, and then slowly bended her face toward his. It was the action of a queen who knows that she reigns notwithstanding irritations, trials, tempests.
But suddenly, from this position, she leaped backward with the mad energy of a frightened colt. Her face was in this instant