Stephen Crane - Ultimate Collection: 200+ Novels, Short Stories & Poems. Stephen Crane
to sing. He beat time with precision and dignity. He gazed into the eyes of his companions, trying to call music from their souls. O’Connor joined in heartily, but with another tune. Off in a corner old Bleecker was making a speech.
The bar-tender came to the door. ‘Gee, you fellahs er making a row. It’s time fer me t’ shut up th’ front th’ place, an’ you mugs better sit on yerselves. It’s one o’clock.’
They began to argue with him. Kelcey, however, sprang to his feet. ‘One o’clock?’ he said. ‘Holy smoke, I mus’ be flyin’!’
There came protesting howls from Jones. Bleecker ceased his oration.
‘My dear boy—’ he began.
Kelcey searched for his hat.
‘I’ve gota go t’ work at seven,’ he said.
The others watched him with discomfort in their eyes.
‘Well,’ said O’Connor, ‘if one goes we might as well all go.’
They sadly took their hats and filed out.
The cold air of the street filled Kelcey with vague surprise. It made his head feel hot. As for his legs, they were like willow-twigs.
A few yellow lights blinked. In front of an all-night restaurant a huge red electric lamp hung and sputtered. Horse-car bells jingled far down the street. Overhead a train thundered on the elevated road.
On the sidewalk the men took fervid leave. They clutched hands with extraordinary force, and proclaimed, for the last time, ardent and admiring friendships.
When he arrived at his home Kelcey proceeded with caution. His mother had left a light burning low. He stumbled once in his voyage across the floor. As he paused to listen he heard the sound of little snores coming from her room.
He lay awake for a few moments and thought of the evening. He had a pleasurable consciousness that he had made a good impression upon those fine fellows. He felt that he had spent the most delightful evening of his life.
CHAPTER V
Kelcey was cross in the morning. His mother had been obliged to shake him a great deal, and it had seemed to him a most unjust thing. Also, when he, blinking his eyes, had entered the kitchen, she had said: ‘Yeh left th’ lamp burnin’ all night last night, George. How many times must I tell yeh never t’ leave th’ lamp burnin’?’
He ate the greater part of his breakfast in silence, moodily stirring his coffee, and glaring at a remote corner of the room with eyes that felt as if they had been baked. When he moved his eyelids there was a sensation that they were cracking. In his mouth there was a singular taste. It seemed to him that he had been sucking the end of a wooden spoon. Moreover, his temper was rampant within him. It sought something to devour.
Finally he said savagely: ‘Damn these early hours!’
His mother jumped as if he had flung a missile at her. ‘Why, George—’ she began.
Kelcey broke in again. ‘Oh, I know all that; but this gettin’ up in th’ mornin’ so early makes me sick. Jest when a man is gettin’ his mornin’ nap he’s gota get up. I—’
‘George, dear,’ said his mother, ‘yeh know how I hate yeh t’ swear, dear. Now, please don’t.’ She looked beseechingly at him.
He made a swift gesture. ‘Well, I ain’t swearin’, am I?’ he demanded. ‘I was on’y sayin’ that this gettin’-up business gives me a pain, wasn’t I?’
Well, yeh know how swearin’ hurts me,’ protested the little old woman. She seemed about to sob. She gazed off retrospectively. She apparently was recalling persons who had never been profane.
‘I don’t see where yeh ever caught this way ‘a swearin’ out at everything,’ she continued presently. ‘Fred, ner John, ner Willie never swore a bit. Ner Tom neither, except when he was real mad.’
The son made another gesture. It was directed into the air, as if he saw there a phantom injustice. ‘Oh, good thunder!’ he said, with an accent of despair. Thereupon he relapsed into a mood of silence. He sombrely regarded his plate.
This demeanour speedily reduced his mother to meekness. When she spoke again it was in a conciliatory voice. ‘George, dear, won’t yeh bring some sugar home t’-night?’ It could be seen that she was asking for a crown of gold.
Kelcey aroused from his semi-slumber.
‘Yes, if I kin remember it,’ he said.
The little old woman arose to stow her son’s lunch into the pail. When he had finished his breakfast he stalked for a time about the room in a dignified way. He put on his coat and hat, and, taking his lunch-pail, went to the door. There he halted, and without turning his head, stiffly said:
‘Well, good-bye.’
The little old woman saw that she had offended her son. She did not seek an explanation. She was accustomed to these phenomena. She made haste to surrender.
‘Ain’t yeh goin’ t’ kiss me good-bye?’ she asked in a little woful voice.
The youth made a pretence of going on deaf-heartedly. He wore the dignity of an injured monarch.
Then the little old woman called again in forsaken accents: ‘George—George! ain’t yeh goin’ t’ kiss me good-bye?’ When he moved he found that she was hanging to his coat-tails.
He turned eventually with a murmur of a sort of tenderness. ‘Why, ‘a course I am,’ he said. He kissed her. Withal, there was an undertone of superiority in his voice, as if he were granting an astonishing suit. She looked at him with reproach and gratitude and affection.
She stood at the head of the stairs and watched his hand sliding along the rail as he went down. Occasionally she could see his arm and part of his shoulder. When he reached the first-floor she called to him ‘Good-bye!’
The little old woman went back to her work in the kitchen with a frown of perplexity upon her brow. ‘I wonder what was th’ matter with George this mornin’,’ she mused. ‘He didn’t seem a bit like himself!’
As she trudged to and fro at her labour she began to speculate. She was much worried. She surmised in a vague way that he was a sufferer from a great internal disease. It was something, no doubt, that devoured the kidneys or quietly fed upon the lungs. Later, she imagined a woman, wicked and fair, who had fascinated him, and was turning his life into a bitter thing. Her mind created many wondrous influences that were swooping like green dragons at him. They were changing him to a morose man, who suffered silently. She longed to discover them, that she might go bravely to the rescue of her heroic son. She knew that he, generous in his pain, would keep it from her. She racked her mind for knowledge.
However, when he came home at night he was extraordinarily blithe. He seemed to be a lad of ten. He capered all about the room. When she was bringing the coffee-pot from the stove to the table he made show of waltzing with her, so that she spilled some of the coffee. She was obliged to scold him.
All through the meal he made jokes. She occasionally was compelled to laugh, despite the fact that she believed that she should not laugh at her own son’s jokes. She uttered reproofs at times, but he did not regard them.
‘Golly,’ he said once, ‘I feel fine as silk. I didn’t think I’d get over feelin’ bad so quick. It—’ He stopped abruptly.
During the evening he sat content. He smoked his pipe and read from an evening paper. She bustled about at her work. She seemed utterly happy with him there, lazily puffing out little clouds of smoke and giving frequent brilliant dissertations upon the news of the day. It seemed to her that she must be a model mother to have such a son, one who came home to her at night and sat contented, in a languor of the muscles after a good day’s toil. She pondered upon the science of her management.
The week thereafter, too, she was joyous, for he stayed at home each