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diff --git a/2545-h/2545-h.htm b/2545-h/2545-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..54b955a --- /dev/null +++ b/2545-h/2545-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7279 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + When God Laughs, and Other Stories, by Jack London + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's When God Laughs and Other Stories, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: When God Laughs and Other Stories + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: December 14, 2008 [EBook #2545] +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN GOD LAUGHS AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by Les Bowler, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + WHEN GOD LAUGHS,<br /><br /> AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Jack London + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1911 Mills and Boon edition + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkgod"> WHEN GOD LAUGHS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE APOSTATE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A WICKED WOMAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> JUST MEAT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> CREATED HE THEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE CHINAGO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> MAKE WESTING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> SEMPER IDEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> A NOSE FOR THE KING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE “FRANCIS SPAIGHT” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A CURIOUS FRAGMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A PIECE OF STEAK </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><a name="linkgod" id="linkgod"></a> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + WHEN GOD LAUGHS (with compliments to Harry Cowell) + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The gods, the gods are stronger; time + Falls down before them, all men's knees + Bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb + Like incense toward them; yea, for these + Are gods, Felise.” + </pre> + <p> + Carquinez had relaxed finally. He stole a glance at the rattling windows, + looked upward at the beamed roof, and listened for a moment to the savage + roar of the south-easter as it caught the bungalow in its bellowing jaws. + Then he held his glass between him and the fire and laughed for joy + through the golden wine. + </p> + <p> + “It is beautiful,” he said. “It is sweetly sweet. It is a woman's wine, + and it was made for gray-robed saints to drink.” + </p> + <p> + “We grow it on our own warm hills,” I said, with pardonable California + pride. “You rode up yesterday through the vines from which it was made.” + </p> + <p> + It was worth while to get Carquinez to loosen up. Nor was he ever really + himself until he felt the mellow warmth of the vine singing in his blood. + He was an artist, it is true, always an artist; but somehow, sober, the + high pitch and lilt went out of his thought-processes and he was prone to + be as deadly dull as a British Sunday—not dull as other men are + dull, but dull when measured by the sprightly wight that Monte Carquinez + was when he was really himself. + </p> + <p> + From all this it must not be inferred that Carquinez, who is my dear + friend and dearer comrade, was a sot. Far from it. He rarely erred. As I + have said, he was an artist. He knew when he had enough, and enough, with + him, was equilibrium—the equilibrium that is yours and mine when we + are sober. + </p> + <p> + His was a wise and instinctive temperateness that savoured of the Greek. + Yet he was far from Greek. “I am Aztec, I am Inca, I am Spaniard,” I have + heard him say. And in truth he looked it, a compound of strange and + ancient races, what with his swarthy skin and the asymmetry and + primitiveness of his features. His eyes, under massively arched brows, + were wide apart and black with the blackness that is barbaric, while + before them was perpetually falling down a great black mop of hair through + which he gazed like a roguish satyr from a thicket. He invariably wore a + soft flannel shirt under his velvet-corduroy jacket, and his necktie was + red. This latter stood for the red flag (he had once lived with the + socialists of Paris), and it symbolized the blood and brotherhood of man. + Also, he had never been known to wear anything on his head save a + leather-banded sombrero. It was even rumoured that he had been born with + this particular piece of headgear. And in my experience it was provocative + of nothing short of sheer delight to see that Mexican sombrero hailing a + cab in Piccadilly or storm-tossed in the crush for the New York Elevated. + </p> + <p> + As I have said, Carquinez was made quick by wine—“as the clay was + made quick when God breathed the breath of life into it,” was his way of + saying it. I confess that he was blasphemously intimate with God; and I + must add that there was no blasphemy in him. He was at all times honest, + and, because he was compounded of paradoxes, greatly misunderstood by + those who did not know him. He could be as elementally raw at times as a + screaming savage; and at other times as delicate as a maid, as subtle as a + Spaniard. And—well, was he not Aztec? Inca? Spaniard? + </p> + <p> + And now I must ask pardon for the space I have given him. (He is my + friend, and I love him.) The house was shaking to the storm, as he drew + closer to the fire and laughed at it through his wine. He looked at me, + and by the added lustre of his eye, and by the alertness of it, I knew + that at last he was pitched in his proper key. + </p> + <p> + “And so you think you've won out against the gods?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Why the gods?” + </p> + <p> + “Whose will but theirs has put satiety upon man?” he cried. + </p> + <p> + “And whence the will in me to escape satiety?” I asked triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “Again the gods,” he laughed. “It is their game we play. They deal and + shuffle all the cards... and take the stakes. Think not that you have + escaped by fleeing from the mad cities. You with your vine-clad hills, + your sunsets and your sunrises, your homely fare and simple round of + living! + </p> + <p> + “I've watched you ever since I came. You have not won. You have + surrendered. You have made terms with the enemy. You have made confession + that you are tired. You have flown the white flag of fatigue. You have + nailed up a notice to the effect that life is ebbing down in you. You have + run away from life. You have played a trick, shabby trick. You have balked + at the game. You refuse to play. You have thrown your cards under the + table and run away to hide, here amongst your hills.” + </p> + <p> + He tossed his straight hair back from his flashing eyes, and scarcely + interrupted to roll a long, brown, Mexican cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “But the gods know. It is an old trick. All the generations of man have + tried it... and lost. The gods know how to deal with such as you. To + pursue is to possess, and to possess is to be sated. And so you, in your + wisdom, have refused any longer to pursue. You have elected surcease. Very + well. You will become sated with surcease. You say you have escaped + satiety! You have merely bartered it for senility. And senility is another + name for satiety. It is satiety's masquerade. Bah!” + </p> + <p> + “But look at me!” I cried. + </p> + <p> + Carquinez was ever a demon for haling ones soul out and making rags and + tatters of it. + </p> + <p> + He looked me witheringly up and down. + </p> + <p> + “You see no signs,” I challenged. + </p> + <p> + “Decay is insidious,” he retorted. “You are rotten ripe.” + </p> + <p> + I laughed and forgave him for his very deviltry. But he refused to be + forgiven. + </p> + <p> + “Do I not know?” he asked. “The gods always win. I have watched men play + for years what seemed a winning game. In the end they lost.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you ever make mistakes?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He blew many meditative rings of smoke before replying. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was nearly fooled, once. Let me tell you. There was Marvin Fiske. + You remember him? And his Dantesque face and poet's soul, singing his + chant of the flesh, the very priest of Love? And there was Ethel Baird, + whom also you must remember.” + </p> + <p> + “A warm saint,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “That is she! Holy as Love, and sweeter! Just a woman, made for love; and + yet—how shall I say?—drenched through with holiness as your + own air here is with the perfume of flowers. Well, they married. They + played a hand with the gods—” + </p> + <p> + “And they won, they gloriously won!” I broke in. + </p> + <p> + Carquinez looked at me pityingly, and his voice was like a funeral bell. + </p> + <p> + “They lost. They supremely, colossally lost.” + </p> + <p> + “But the world believes otherwise,” I ventured coldly. + </p> + <p> + “The world conjectures. The world sees only the face of things. But I + know. Has it ever entered your mind to wonder why she took the veil, + buried herself in that dolorous convent of the living dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she loved him so, and when he died...” + </p> + <p> + Speech was frozen on my lips by Carquinez's sneer. + </p> + <p> + “A pat answer,” he said, “machine-made like a piece of cotton-drill. The + world's judgment! And much the world knows about it. Like you, she fled + from life. She was beaten. She flung out the white flag of fatigue. And no + beleaguered city ever flew that flag in such bitterness and tears. + </p> + <p> + “Now I shall tell you the whole tale, and you must believe me, for I know. + They had pondered the problem of satiety. They loved Love. They knew to + the uttermost farthing the value of Love. They loved him so well that they + were fain to keep him always, warm and a-thrill in their hearts. They + welcomed his coming; they feared to have him depart. + </p> + <p> + “Love was desire, they held, a delicious pain. He was ever seeking + easement, and when he found that for which he sought, he died. Love denied + was Love alive; Love granted was Love deceased. Do you follow me? They saw + it was not the way of life to be hungry for what it has. To eat and still + be hungry—man has never accomplished that feat. The problem of + satiety. That is it. To have and to keep the sharp famine-edge of appetite + at the groaning board. This was their problem, for they loved Love. Often + did they discuss it, with all Love's sweet ardours brimming in their eyes; + his ruddy blood spraying their cheeks; his voice playing in and out with + their voices, now hiding as a tremolo in their throats, and again shading + a tone with that ineffable tenderness which he alone can utter. + </p> + <p> + “How do I know all this? I saw—much. More I learned from her diary. + This I found in it, from Fiona Macleod: 'For, truly, that wandering voice, + that twilight-whisper, that breath so dewy-sweet, that flame-winged + lute-player whom none sees but for a moment, in a rainbow-shimmer of joy, + or a sudden lightning-flare of passion, this exquisite mystery we call + Amor, comes, to some rapt visionaries at least, not with a song upon the + lips that all may hear, or with blithe viol of public music, but as one + wrought by ecstasy, dumbly eloquent with desire.' + </p> + <p> + “How to keep the flame-winged lute-player with his dumb eloquence of + desire? To feast him was to lose him. Their love for each other was a + great love. Their granaries were overflowing with plenitude; yet they + wanted to keep the sharp famine-edge of their love undulled. + </p> + <p> + “Nor were they lean little fledglings theorizing on the threshold of Love. + They were robust and realized souls. They had loved before, with others, + in the days before they met; and in those days they had throttled Love + with caresses, and killed him with kisses, and buried him in the pit of + satiety. + </p> + <p> + “They were not cold wraiths, this man and woman. They were warm human. + They had no Saxon soberness in their blood. The colour of it was + sunset-red. They glowed with it. Temperamentally theirs was the French joy + in the flesh. They were idealists, but their idealism was Gallic. It was + not tempered by the chill and sombre fluid that for the English serves as + blood. There was no stoicism about them. They were Americans, descended + out of the English, and yet the refraining and self-denying of the English + spirit-groping were not theirs. + </p> + <p> + “They were all this that I have said, and they were made for joy, only + they achieved a concept. A curse on concepts! They played with logic, and + this was their logic.—But first let me tell you of a talk we had one + night. It was of Gautier's Madeline de Maupin. You remember the maid? She + kissed once, and once only, and kisses she would have no more. Not that + she found kisses were not sweet, but that she feared with repetition they + would cloy. Satiety again! She tried to play without stakes against the + gods. Now this is contrary to a rule of the game the gods themselves have + made. Only the rules are not posted over the table. Mortals must play in + order to learn the rules. + </p> + <p> + “Well, to the logic. The man and the woman argued thus: Why kiss once + only? If to kiss once were wise, was it not wiser to kiss not at all? Thus + could they keep Love alive. Fasting, he would knock forever at their + hearts. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it was out of their heredity that they achieved this unholy + concept. The breed will out and sometimes most fantastically. Thus in them + did cursed Albion array herself a scheming wanton, a bold, + cold-calculating, and artful hussy. After all, I do not know. But this I + know: it was out of their inordinate desire for joy that they forewent + joy. + </p> + <p> + “As he said (I read it long afterward in one of his letters to her): 'To + hold you in my arms, close, and yet not close. To yearn for you, and never + to have you, and so always to have you.' And she: 'For you to be always + just beyond my reach. To be ever attaining you, and yet never attaining + you, and for this to last forever, always fresh and new, and always with + the first flush upon us. + </p> + <p> + “That is not the way they said it. On my lips their love-philosophy is + mangled. And who am I to delve into their soul-stuff? I am a frog, on the + dank edge of a great darkness, gazing goggle-eyed at the mystery and + wonder of their flaming souls. + </p> + <p> + “And they were right, as far as they went. Everything is good... as long + as it is unpossessed. Satiety and possession are Death's horses; they run + in span. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'And time could only tutor us to eke + Our rapture's warmth with custom's afterglow.' +</pre> + <p> + “They got that from a sonnet of Alfred Austin's. It was called 'Love's + Wisdom.' It was the one kiss of Madeline de Maupin. How did it run? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Kiss we and part; no further can we go; + And better death than we from high to low + Should dwindle, or decline from strong to weak.' +</pre> + <p> + “But they were wiser. They would not kiss and part. They would not kiss at + all, and thus they planned to stay at Love's topmost peak. They married. + You were in England at the time. And never was there such a marriage. They + kept their secret to themselves. I did not know, then. Their rapture's + warmth did not cool. Their love burned with increasing brightness. Never + was there anything like it. The time passed, the months, the years, and + ever the flame-winged lute-player grew more resplendent. + </p> + <p> + “Everybody marvelled. They became the wonderful lovers, and they were + greatly envied. Sometimes women pitied her because she was childless; it + is the form the envy of such creatures takes. + </p> + <p> + “And I did not know their secret. I pondered and I marvelled. As first I + had expected, subconsciously I imagine, the passing of their love. Then I + became aware that it was Time that passed and Love that remained. Then I + became curious. What was their secret? What were the magic fetters with + which they bound Love to them? How did they hold the graceless elf? What + elixir of eternal love had they drunk together as had Tristram and Iseult + of old time? And whose hand had brewed the fairy drink? + </p> + <p> + “As I say, I was curious, and I watched them. They were love-mad. They + lived in an unending revel of Love. They made a pomp and ceremonial of it. + They saturated themselves in the art and poetry of Love. No, they were not + neurotics. They were sane and healthy, and they were artists. But they had + accomplished the impossible. They had achieved deathless desire. + </p> + <p> + “And I? I saw much of them and their everlasting miracle of Love. I + puzzled and wondered, and then one day—” + </p> + <p> + Carquinez broke off abruptly and asked, “Have you ever read, 'Love's + Waiting Time'?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “Page wrote it—Curtis Hidden Page, I think. Well, it was that bit of + verse that gave me the clue. One day, in the window-seat near the big + piano—you remember how she could play? She used to laugh, sometimes, + and doubt whether it was for them I came, or for the music. She called me + a 'music-sot' once, a 'sound-debauchee.' What a voice he had! When he sang + I believed in immortality, my regard for the gods grew almost patronizing + and I devised ways and means whereby I surely could outwit them and their + tricks. + </p> + <p> + “It was a spectacle for God, that man and woman, years married, and + singing love-songs with a freshness virginal as new-born Love himself, + with a ripeness and wealth of ardour that young lovers can never know. + Young lovers were pale and anaemic beside that long-married pair. To see + them, all fire and flame and tenderness, at a trembling distance, + lavishing caresses of eye and voice with every action, through every + silence—their love driving them toward each other, and they + withholding like fluttering moths, each to the other a candle-flame, and + revolving each about the other in the mad gyrations of an amazing + orbit-flight! It seemed, in obedience to some great law of physics, more + potent than gravitation and more subtle, that they must corporeally melt + each into each there before my very eyes. Small wonder they were called + the wonderful lovers. + </p> + <p> + “I have wandered. Now to the clue. One day in the window-seat I found a + book of verse. It opened of itself, betraying long habit, to 'Love's + Waiting Time.' The page was thumbed and limp with overhandling, and there + I read:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'So sweet it is to stand but just apart, + To know each other better, and to keep + The soft, delicious sense of two that touch... + + O love, not yet!... Sweet, let us keep our love + Wrapped round with sacred mystery awhile, + Waiting the secret of the coming years, + That come not yet, not yet... sometime... + not yet... + + Oh, yet a little while our love may grow! + When it has blossomed it will haply die. + Feed it with lipless kisses, let it sleep, + Bedded in dead denial yet some while... + Oh, yet a little while, a little while.' +</pre> + <p> + “I folded the book on my thumb and sat there silent and without moving for + a long time. I was stunned by the clearness of vision the verse had + imparted to me. It was illumination. It was like a bolt of God's lightning + in the Pit. They would keep Love, the fickle sprite, the forerunner of + young life—young life that is imperative to be born! + </p> + <p> + “I conned the lines over in my mind—'Not yet, sometime'—'O + Love, not yet'—'Feed it with lipless kisses, let it sleep.' And I + laughed aloud, ha, ha! I saw with white vision their blameless souls. They + were children. They did not understand. They played with Nature's fire and + bedded with a naked sword. They laughed at the gods. They would stop the + cosmic sap. They had invented a system, and brought it to the gaming-table + of life, and expected to win out. 'Beware!' I cried. 'The gods are behind + the table. They make new rules for every system that is devised. You have + no chance to win.' + </p> + <p> + “But I did not so cry to them. I waited. They would learn that their + system was worthless and throw it away. They would be content with + whatever happiness the gods gave them and not strive to wrest more away. + </p> + <p> + “I watched. I said nothing. The months continued to come and go, and still + the famine-edge of their love grew the sharper. Never did they dull it + with a permitted love-clasp. They ground and whetted it on self-denial, + and sharper and sharper it grew. This went on until even I doubted. Did + the gods sleep? I wondered. Or were they dead? I laughed to myself. The + man and the woman had made a miracle. They had outwitted God. They had + shamed the flesh, and blackened the face of the good Earth Mother. They + had played with her fire and not been burned. They were immune. They were + themselves gods, knowing good from evil and tasting not. 'Was this the way + gods came to be?' I asked myself. 'I am a frog,' I said. 'But for my + mud-lidded eyes I should have been blinded by the brightness of this + wonder I have witnessed. I have puffed myself up with my wisdom and passed + judgment upon gods.' + </p> + <p> + “Yet even in this, my latest wisdom, I was wrong. They were not gods. They + were man and woman—soft clay that sighed and thrilled, shot through + with desire, thumbed with strange weaknesses which the gods have not.” + </p> + <p> + Carquinez broke from his narrative to roll another cigarette and to laugh + harshly. It was not a pretty laugh; it was like the mockery of a devil, + and it rose over and rode the roar of the storm that came muffled to our + ears from the crashing outside world. + </p> + <p> + “I am a frog,” he said apologetically. “How were they to understand? They + were artists, not biologists. They knew the clay of the studio, but they + did not know the clay of which they themselves were made. But this I will + say—they played high. Never was there such a game before, and I + doubt me if there will ever be such a game again. + </p> + <p> + “Never was lovers' ecstasy like theirs. They had not killed Love with + kisses. They had quickened him with denial. And by denial they drove him + on till he was all aburst with desire. And the flame-winged lute-player + fanned them with his warm wings till they were all but swooning. It was + the very delirium of Love, and it continued undiminished and increasing + through the weeks and months. + </p> + <p> + “They longed and yearned, with all the fond pangs and sweet delicious + agonies, with an intensity never felt by lovers before nor since. + </p> + <p> + “And then one day the drowsy gods ceased nodding. They aroused and looked + at the man and woman who had made a mock of them. And the man and woman + looked into each other's eyes one morning and knew that something was + gone. It was the flame-winged one. He had fled, silently, in the night, + from their anchorites' board. + </p> + <p> + “They looked into each other's eyes and knew that they did not care. + Desire was dead. Do you understand? Desire was dead. And they had never + kissed. Not once had they kissed. Love was gone. They would never yearn + and burn again. For them there was nothing left—no more tremblings + and flutterings and delicious anguishes, no more throbbing and pulsing, + and sighing and song. Desire was dead. It had died in the night, on a + couch cold and unattended; nor had they witnessed its passing. They + learned it for the first time in each other's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The gods may not be kind, but they are often merciful. They had twirled + the little ivory ball and swept the stakes from the table. All that + remained was the man and woman gazing into each other's cold eyes. And + then he died. That was the mercy. Within the week Marvin Fiske was dead—you + remember the accident. And in her diary, written at this time, I long + afterward read Mitchell Kennerly's:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'There was not a single hour + We might have kissed and did not kiss.'” + </pre> + <p> + “Oh, the irony of it!” I cried out. + </p> + <p> + And Carquinez, in the firelight a veritable Mephistopheles in velvet + jacket, fixed me with his black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And they won, you said? The world's judgment! I have told you, and I + know. They won as you are winning, here in your hills.” + </p> + <p> + “But you,” I demanded hotly; “you with your orgies of sound and sense, + with your mad cities and madder frolics—bethink you that you win?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head slowly. “Because you with your sober bucolic regime, + lose, is no reason that I should win. We never win. Sometimes we think we + win. That is a little pleasantry of the gods.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE APOSTATE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now I wake me up to work; + I pray the Lord I may not shirk. + If I should die before the night, + I pray the Lord my work's all right. + Amen.” + </pre> + <p> + “If you don't git up, Johnny, I won't give you a bite to eat!” + </p> + <p> + The threat had no effect on the boy. He clung stubbornly to sleep, + fighting for its oblivion as the dreamer fights for his dream. The boy's + hands loosely clenched themselves, and he made feeble, spasmodic blows at + the air. These blows were intended for his mother, but she betrayed + practised familiarity in avoiding them as she shook him roughly by the + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Lemme 'lone!” + </p> + <p> + It was a cry that began, muffled, in the deeps of sleep, that swiftly + rushed upward, like a wail, into passionate belligerence, and that died + away and sank down into an inarticulate whine. It was a bestial cry, as of + a soul in torment, filled with infinite protest and pain. + </p> + <p> + But she did not mind. She was a sad-eyed, tired-faced woman, and she had + grown used to this task, which she repeated every day of her life. She got + a grip on the bedclothes and tried to strip them down; but the boy, + ceasing his punching, clung to them desperately. In a huddle, at the foot + of the bed, he still remained covered. Then she tried dragging the bedding + to the floor. The boy opposed her. She braced herself. Hers was the + superior weight, and the boy and bedding gave, the former instinctively + following the latter in order to shelter against the chill of the room + that bit into his body. + </p> + <p> + As he toppled on the edge of the bed it seemed that he must fall + head-first to the floor. But consciousness fluttered up in him. He righted + himself and for a moment perilously balanced. Then he struck the floor on + his feet. On the instant his mother seized him by the shoulders and shook + him. Again his fists struck out, this time with more force and directness. + At the same time his eyes opened. She released him. He was awake. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he mumbled. + </p> + <p> + She caught up the lamp and hurried out, leaving him in darkness. + </p> + <p> + “You'll be docked,” she warned back to him. + </p> + <p> + He did not mind the darkness. When he had got into his clothes, he went + out into the kitchen. His tread was very heavy for so thin and light a + boy. His legs dragged with their own weight, which seemed unreasonable + because they were such skinny legs. He drew a broken-bottomed chair to the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Johnny,” his mother called sharply. + </p> + <p> + He arose as sharply from the chair, and, without a word, went to the sink. + It was a greasy, filthy sink. A smell came up from the outlet. He took no + notice of it. That a sink should smell was to him part of the natural + order, just as it was a part of the natural order that the soap should be + grimy with dish-water and hard to lather. Nor did he try very hard to make + it lather. Several splashes of the cold water from the running faucet + completed the function. He did not wash his teeth. For that matter he had + never seen a toothbrush, nor did he know that there existed beings in the + world who were guilty of so great a foolishness as tooth washing. + </p> + <p> + “You might wash yourself wunst a day without bein' told,” his mother + complained. + </p> + <p> + She was holding a broken lid on the pot as she poured two cups of coffee. + He made no remark, for this was a standing quarrel between them, and the + one thing upon which his mother was hard as adamant. “Wunst” a day it was + compulsory that he should wash his face. He dried himself on a greasy + towel, damp and dirty and ragged, that left his face covered with shreds + of lint. + </p> + <p> + “I wish we didn't live so far away,” she said, as he sat down. “I try to + do the best I can. You know that. But a dollar on the rent is such a + savin', an' we've more room here. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + He scarcely followed her. He had heard it all before, many times. The + range of her thought was limited, and she was ever harking back to the + hardship worked upon them by living so far from the mills. + </p> + <p> + “A dollar means more grub,” he remarked sententiously. “I'd sooner do the + walkin' an' git the grub.” + </p> + <p> + He ate hurriedly, half chewing the bread and washing the unmasticated + chunks down with coffee. The hot and muddy liquid went by the name of + coffee. Johnny thought it was coffee—and excellent coffee. That was + one of the few of life's illusions that remained to him. He had never + drunk real coffee in his life. + </p> + <p> + In addition to the bread, there was a small piece of cold pork. His mother + refilled his cup with coffee. As he was finishing the bread, he began to + watch if more was forthcoming. She intercepted his questioning glance. + </p> + <p> + “Now, don't be hoggish, Johnny,” was her comment. “You've had your share. + Your brothers an' sisters are smaller'n you.” + </p> + <p> + He did not answer the rebuke. He was not much of a talker. Also, he ceased + his hungry glancing for more. He was uncomplaining, with a patience that + was as terrible as the school in which it had been learned. He finished + his coffee, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and started to rise. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a second,” she said hastily. “I guess the loaf kin stand you another + slice—a thin un.” + </p> + <p> + There was legerdemain in her actions. With all the seeming of cutting a + slice from the loaf for him, she put loaf and slice back in the bread box + and conveyed to him one of her own two slices. She believed she had + deceived him, but he had noted her sleight-of-hand. Nevertheless, he took + the bread shamelessly. He had a philosophy that his mother, because of her + chronic sickliness, was not much of an eater anyway. + </p> + <p> + She saw that he was chewing the bread dry, and reached over and emptied + her coffee cup into his. + </p> + <p> + “Don't set good somehow on my stomach this morning,” she explained. + </p> + <p> + A distant whistle, prolonged and shrieking, brought both of them to their + feet. She glanced at the tin alarm-clock on the shelf. The hands stood at + half-past five. The rest of the factory world was just arousing from + sleep. She drew a shawl about her shoulders, and on her head put a dingy + hat, shapeless and ancient. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to run,” she said, turning the wick of the lamp and blowing + down the chimney. + </p> + <p> + They groped their way out and down the stairs. It was clear and cold, and + Johnny shivered at the first contact with the outside air. The stars had + not yet begun to pale in the sky, and the city lay in blackness. Both + Johnny and his mother shuffled their feet as they walked. There was no + ambition in the leg muscles to swing the feet clear of the ground. + </p> + <p> + After fifteen silent minutes, his mother turned off to the right. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be late,” was her final warning from out of the dark that was + swallowing her up. + </p> + <p> + He made no response, steadily keeping on his way. In the factory quarter, + doors were opening everywhere, and he was soon one of a multitude that + pressed onward through the dark. As he entered the factory gate the + whistle blew again. He glanced at the east. Across a ragged sky-line of + housetops a pale light was beginning to creep. This much he saw of the day + as he turned his back upon it and joined his work gang. + </p> + <p> + He took his place in one of many long rows of machines. Before him, above + a bin filled with small bobbins, were large bobbins revolving rapidly. + Upon these he wound the jute-twine of the small bobbins. The work was + simple. All that was required was celerity. The small bobbins were emptied + so rapidly, and there were so many large bobbins that did the emptying, + that there were no idle moments. + </p> + <p> + He worked mechanically. When a small bobbin ran out, he used his left hand + for a brake, stopping the large bobbin and at the same time, with thumb + and forefinger, catching the flying end of twine. Also, at the same time, + with his right hand, he caught up the loose twine-end of a small bobbin. + These various acts with both hands were performed simultaneously and + swiftly. Then there would come a flash of his hands as he looped the + weaver's knot and released the bobbin. There was nothing difficult about + weaver's knots. He once boasted he could tie them in his sleep. And for + that matter, he sometimes did, toiling centuries long in a single night at + tying an endless succession of weaver's knots. + </p> + <p> + Some of the boys shirked, wasting time and machinery by not replacing the + small bobbins when they ran out. And there was an overseer to prevent + this. He caught Johnny's neighbour at the trick, and boxed his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Look at Johnny there—why ain't you like him?” the overseer + wrathfully demanded. + </p> + <p> + Johnny's bobbins were running full blast, but he did not thrill at the + indirect praise. There had been a time... but that was long ago, very long + ago. His apathetic face was expressionless as he listened to himself being + held up as a shining example. He was the perfect worker. He knew that. He + had been told so, often. It was a commonplace, and besides it didn't seem + to mean anything to him any more. From the perfect worker he had evolved + into the perfect machine. When his work went wrong, it was with him as + with the machine, due to faulty material. It would have been as possible + for a perfect nail-die to cut imperfect nails as for him to make a + mistake. + </p> + <p> + And small wonder. There had never been a time when he had not been in + intimate relationship with machines. Machinery had almost been bred into + him, and at any rate he had been brought up on it. Twelve years before, + there had been a small flutter of excitement in the loom room of this very + mill. Johnny's mother had fainted. They stretched her out on the floor in + the midst of the shrieking machines. A couple of elderly women were called + from their looms. The foreman assisted. And in a few minutes there was one + more soul in the loom room than had entered by the doors. It was Johnny, + born with the pounding, crashing roar of the looms in his ears, drawing + with his first breath the warm, moist air that was thick with flying lint. + He had coughed that first day in order to rid his lungs of the lint; and + for the same reason he had coughed ever since. + </p> + <p> + The boy alongside of Johnny whimpered and sniffed. The boy's face was + convulsed with hatred for the overseer who kept a threatening eye on him + from a distance; but every bobbin was running full. The boy yelled + terrible oaths into the whirling bobbins before him; but the sound did not + carry half a dozen feet, the roaring of the room holding it in and + containing it like a wall. + </p> + <p> + Of all this Johnny took no notice. He had a way of accepting things. + Besides, things grow monotonous by repetition, and this particular + happening he had witnessed many times. It seemed to him as useless to + oppose the overseer as to defy the will of a machine. Machines were made + to go in certain ways and to perform certain tasks. It was the same with + the overseer. + </p> + <p> + But at eleven o'clock there was excitement in the room. In an apparently + occult way the excitement instantly permeated everywhere. The one-legged + boy who worked on the other side of Johnny bobbed swiftly across the floor + to a bin truck that stood empty. Into this he dived out of sight, crutch + and all. The superintendent of the mill was coming along, accompanied by a + young man. He was well dressed and wore a starched shirt—a + gentleman, in Johnny's classification of men, and also, “the Inspector.” + </p> + <p> + He looked sharply at the boys as he passed along. Sometimes he stopped and + asked questions. When he did so, he was compelled to shout at the top of + his lungs, at which moments his face was ludicrously contorted with the + strain of making himself heard. His quick eye noted the empty machine + alongside of Johnny's, but he said nothing. Johnny also caught his eye, + and he stopped abruptly. He caught Johnny by the arm to draw him back a + step from the machine; but with an exclamation of surprise he released the + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty skinny,” the superintendent laughed anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Pipe stems,” was the answer. “Look at those legs. The boy's got the + rickets—incipient, but he's got them. If epilepsy doesn't get him in + the end, it will be because tuberculosis gets him first.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny listened, but did not understand. Furthermore he was not interested + in future ills. There was an immediate and more serious ill that + threatened him in the form of the inspector. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my boy, I want you to tell me the truth,” the inspector said, or + shouted, bending close to the boy's ear to make him hear. “How old are + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Fourteen,” Johnny lied, and he lied with the full force of his lungs. So + loudly did he lie that it started him off in a dry, hacking cough that + lifted the lint which had been settling in his lungs all morning. + </p> + <p> + “Looks sixteen at least,” said the superintendent. + </p> + <p> + “Or sixty,” snapped the inspector. + </p> + <p> + “He's always looked that way.” + </p> + <p> + “How long?” asked the inspector, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “For years. Never gets a bit older.” + </p> + <p> + “Or younger, I dare say. I suppose he's worked here all those years?” + </p> + <p> + “Off and on—but that was before the new law was passed,” the + superintendent hastened to add. + </p> + <p> + “Machine idle?” the inspector asked, pointing at the unoccupied machine + beside Johnny's, in which the part-filled bobbins were flying like mad. + </p> + <p> + “Looks that way.” The superintendent motioned the overseer to him and + shouted in his ear and pointed at the machine. “Machine's idle,” he + reported back to the inspector. + </p> + <p> + They passed on, and Johnny returned to his work, relieved in that the ill + had been averted. But the one-legged boy was not so fortunate. The + sharp-eyed inspector haled him out at arms length from the bin truck. His + lips were quivering, and his face had all the expression of one upon whom + was fallen profound and irremediable disaster. The overseer looked + astounded, as though for the first time he had laid eyes on the boy, while + the superintendent's face expressed shock and displeasure. + </p> + <p> + “I know him,” the inspector said. “He's twelve years old. I've had him + discharged from three factories inside the year. This makes the fourth.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the one-legged boy. “You promised me, word and honour, that + you'd go to school.” + </p> + <p> + The one-legged boy burst into tears. “Please, Mr. Inspector, two babies + died on us, and we're awful poor.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you cough that way?” the inspector demanded, as though + charging him with crime. + </p> + <p> + And as in denial of guilt, the one-legged boy replied: “It ain't nothin'. + I jes' caught a cold last week, Mr. Inspector, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + In the end the one-legged boy went out of the room with the inspector, the + latter accompanied by the anxious and protesting superintendent. After + that monotony settled down again. The long morning and the longer + afternoon wore away and the whistle blew for quitting time. Darkness had + already fallen when Johnny passed out through the factory gate. In the + interval the sun had made a golden ladder of the sky, flooded the world + with its gracious warmth, and dropped down and disappeared in the west + behind a ragged sky-line of housetops. + </p> + <p> + Supper was the family meal of the day—the one meal at which Johnny + encountered his younger brothers and sisters. It partook of the nature of + an encounter, to him, for he was very old, while they were distressingly + young. He had no patience with their excessive and amazing juvenility. He + did not understand it. His own childhood was too far behind him. He was + like an old and irritable man, annoyed by the turbulence of their young + spirits that was to him arrant silliness. He glowered silently over his + food, finding compensation in the thought that they would soon have to go + to work. That would take the edge off of them and make them sedate and + dignified—like him. Thus it was, after the fashion of the human, + that Johnny made of himself a yardstick with which to measure the + universe. + </p> + <p> + During the meal, his mother explained in various ways and with infinite + repetition that she was trying to do the best she could; so that it was + with relief, the scant meal ended, that Johnny shoved back his chair and + arose. He debated for a moment between bed and the front door, and finally + went out the latter. He did not go far. He sat down on the stoop, his + knees drawn up and his narrow shoulders drooping forward, his elbows on + his knees and the palms of his hands supporting his chin. + </p> + <p> + As he sat there, he did no thinking. He was just resting. So far as his + mind was concerned, it was asleep. His brothers and sisters came out, and + with other children played noisily about him. An electric globe at the + corner lighted their frolics. He was peevish and irritable, that they + knew; but the spirit of adventure lured them into teasing him. They joined + hands before him, and, keeping time with their bodies, chanted in his face + weird and uncomplimentary doggerel. At first he snarled curses at them—curses + he had learned from the lips of various foremen. Finding this futile, and + remembering his dignity, he relapsed into dogged silence. + </p> + <p> + His brother Will, next to him in age, having just passed his tenth + birthday, was the ringleader. Johnny did not possess particularly kindly + feelings toward him. His life had early been embittered by continual + giving over and giving way to Will. He had a definite feeling that Will + was greatly in his debt and was ungrateful about it. In his own playtime, + far back in the dim past, he had been robbed of a large part of that + playtime by being compelled to take care of Will. Will was a baby then, + and then, as now, their mother had spent her days in the mills. To Johnny + had fallen the part of little father and little mother as well. + </p> + <p> + Will seemed to show the benefit of the giving over and the giving way. He + was well-built, fairly rugged, as tall as his elder brother and even + heavier. It was as though the life-blood of the one had been diverted into + the other's veins. And in spirits it was the same. Johnny was jaded, worn + out, without resilience, while his younger brother seemed bursting and + spilling over with exuberance. + </p> + <p> + The mocking chant rose louder and louder. Will leaned closer as he danced, + thrusting out his tongue. Johnny's left arm shot out and caught the other + around the neck. At the same time he rapped his bony fist to the other's + nose. It was a pathetically bony fist, but that it was sharp to hurt was + evidenced by the squeal of pain it produced. The other children were + uttering frightened cries, while Johnny's sister, Jennie, had dashed into + the house. + </p> + <p> + He thrust Will from him, kicked him savagely on the shins, then reached + for him and slammed him face downward in the dirt. Nor did he release him + till the face had been rubbed into the dirt several times. Then the mother + arrived, an anaemic whirlwind of solicitude and maternal wrath. + </p> + <p> + “Why can't he leave me alone?” was Johnny's reply to her upbraiding. + “Can't he see I'm tired?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm as big as you,” Will raged in her arms, his face a mass of tears, + dirt, and blood. “I'm as big as you now, an' I'm goin' to git bigger. Then + I'll lick you—see if I don't.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be to work, seein' how big you are,” Johnny snarled. “That's + what's the matter with you. You ought to be to work. An' it's up to your + ma to put you to work.” + </p> + <p> + “But he's too young,” she protested. “He's only a little boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I was younger'n him when I started to work.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny's mouth was open, further to express the sense of unfairness that + he felt, but the mouth closed with a snap. He turned gloomily on his heel + and stalked into the house and to bed. The door of his room was open to + let in warmth from the kitchen. As he undressed in the semi-darkness he + could hear his mother talking with a neighbour woman who had dropped in. + His mother was crying, and her speech was punctuated with spiritless + sniffles. + </p> + <p> + “I can't make out what's gittin' into Johnny,” he could hear her say. “He + didn't used to be this way. He was a patient little angel. + </p> + <p> + “An' he is a good boy,” she hastened to defend. “He's worked faithful, an' + he did go to work too young. But it wasn't my fault. I do the best I can, + I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + Prolonged sniffling from the kitchen, and Johnny murmured to himself as + his eyelids closed down, “You betcher life I've worked faithful.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning he was torn bodily by his mother from the grip of sleep. + Then came the meagre breakfast, the tramp through the dark, and the pale + glimpse of day across the housetops as he turned his back on it and went + in through the factory gate. It was another day, of all the days, and all + the days were alike. + </p> + <p> + And yet there had been variety in his life—at the times he changed + from one job to another, or was taken sick. When he was six, he was little + mother and father to Will and the other children still younger. At seven + he went into the mills—winding bobbins. When he was eight, he got + work in another mill. His new job was marvellously easy. All he had to do + was to sit down with a little stick in his hand and guide a stream of + cloth that flowed past him. This stream of cloth came out of the maw of a + machine, passed over a hot roller, and went on its way elsewhere. But he + sat always in one place, beyond the reach of daylight, a gas-jet flaring + over him, himself part of the mechanism. + </p> + <p> + He was very happy at that job, in spite of the moist heat, for he was + still young and in possession of dreams and illusions. And wonderful + dreams he dreamed as he watched the steaming cloth streaming endlessly by. + But there was no exercise about the work, no call upon his mind, and he + dreamed less and less, while his mind grew torpid and drowsy. + Nevertheless, he earned two dollars a week, and two dollars represented + the difference between acute starvation and chronic underfeeding. + </p> + <p> + But when he was nine, he lost his job. Measles was the cause of it. After + he recovered, he got work in a glass factory. The pay was better, and the + work demanded skill. It was piecework, and the more skilful he was, the + bigger wages he earned. Here was incentive. And under this incentive he + developed into a remarkable worker. + </p> + <p> + It was simple work, the tying of glass stoppers into small bottles. At his + waist he carried a bundle of twine. He held the bottles between his knees + so that he might work with both hands. Thus, in a sitting position and + bending over his own knees, his narrow shoulders grew humped and his chest + was contracted for ten hours each day. This was not good for the lungs, + but he tied three hundred dozen bottles a day. + </p> + <p> + The superintendent was very proud of him, and brought visitors to look at + him. In ten hours three hundred dozen bottles passed through his hands. + This meant that he had attained machine-like perfection. All waste + movements were eliminated. Every motion of his thin arms, every movement + of a muscle in the thin fingers, was swift and accurate. He worked at high + tension, and the result was that he grew nervous. At night his muscles + twitched in his sleep, and in the daytime he could not relax and rest. He + remained keyed up and his muscles continued to twitch. Also he grew sallow + and his lint-cough grew worse. Then pneumonia laid hold of the feeble + lungs within the contracted chest, and he lost his job in the glass-works. + </p> + <p> + Now he had returned to the jute mills where he had first begun with + winding bobbins. But promotion was waiting for him. He was a good worker. + He would next go on the starcher, and later he would go into the loom + room. There was nothing after that except increased efficiency. + </p> + <p> + The machinery ran faster than when he had first gone to work, and his mind + ran slower. He no longer dreamed at all, though his earlier years had been + full of dreaming. Once he had been in love. It was when he first began + guiding the cloth over the hot roller, and it was with the daughter of the + superintendent. She was much older than he, a young woman, and he had seen + her at a distance only a paltry half-dozen times. But that made no + difference. On the surface of the cloth stream that poured past him, he + pictured radiant futures wherein he performed prodigies of toil, invented + miraculous machines, won to the mastership of the mills, and in the end + took her in his arms and kissed her soberly on the brow. + </p> + <p> + But that was all in the long ago, before he had grown too old and tired to + love. Also, she had married and gone away, and his mind had gone to sleep. + Yet it had been a wonderful experience, and he used often to look back + upon it as other men and women look back upon the time they believed in + fairies. He had never believed in fairies nor Santa Claus; but he had + believed implicitly in the smiling future his imagination had wrought into + the steaming cloth stream. + </p> + <p> + He had become a man very early in life. At seven, when he drew his first + wages, began his adolescence. A certain feeling of independence crept up + in him, and the relationship between him and his mother changed. Somehow, + as an earner and breadwinner, doing his own work in the world, he was more + like an equal with her. Manhood, full-blown manhood, had come when he was + eleven, at which time he had gone to work on the night shift for six + months. No child works on the night shift and remains a child. + </p> + <p> + There had been several great events in his life. One of these had been + when his mother bought some California prunes. Two others had been the two + times when she cooked custard. Those had been events. He remembered them + kindly. And at that time his mother had told him of a blissful dish she + would sometime make—“floating island,” she had called it, “better + than custard.” For years he had looked forward to the day when he would + sit down to the table with floating island before him, until at last he + had relegated the idea of it to the limbo of unattainable ideals. + </p> + <p> + Once he found a silver quarter lying on the sidewalk. That, also, was a + great event in his life, withal a tragic one. He knew his duty on the + instant the silver flashed on his eyes, before even he had picked it up. + At home, as usual, there was not enough to eat, and home he should have + taken it as he did his wages every Saturday night. Right conduct in this + case was obvious; but he never had any spending of his money, and he was + suffering from candy hunger. He was ravenous for the sweets that only on + red-letter days he had ever tasted in his life. + </p> + <p> + He did not attempt to deceive himself. He knew it was sin, and + deliberately he sinned when he went on a fifteen-cent candy debauch. Ten + cents he saved for a future orgy; but not being accustomed to the carrying + of money, he lost the ten cents. This occurred at the time when he was + suffering all the torments of conscience, and it was to him an act of + divine retribution. He had a frightened sense of the closeness of an awful + and wrathful God. God had seen, and God had been swift to punish, denying + him even the full wages of sin. + </p> + <p> + In memory he always looked back upon that as the one great criminal deed + of his life, and at the recollection his conscience always awoke and gave + him another twinge. It was the one skeleton in his closet. Also, being so + made, and circumstanced, he looked back upon the deed with regret. He was + dissatisfied with the manner in which he had spent the quarter. He could + have invested it better, and, out of his later knowledge of the quickness + of God, he would have beaten God out by spending the whole quarter at one + fell swoop. In retrospect he spent the quarter a thousand times, and each + time to better advantage. + </p> + <p> + There was one other memory of the past, dim and faded, but stamped into + his soul everlasting by the savage feet of his father. It was more like a + nightmare than a remembered vision of a concrete thing—more like the + race-memory of man that makes him fall in his sleep and that goes back to + his arboreal ancestry. + </p> + <p> + This particular memory never came to Johnny in broad daylight when he was + wide awake. It came at night, in bed, at the moment that his consciousness + was sinking down and losing itself in sleep. It always aroused him to + frightened wakefulness, and for the moment, in the first sickening start, + it seemed to him that he lay crosswise on the foot of the bed. In the bed + were the vague forms of his father and mother. He never saw what his + father looked like. He had but one impression of his father, and that was + that he had savage and pitiless feet. + </p> + <p> + His earlier memories lingered with him, but he had no late memories. All + days were alike. Yesterday or last year were the same as a thousand years—or + a minute. Nothing ever happened. There were no events to mark the march of + time. Time did not march. It stood always still. It was only the whirling + machines that moved, and they moved nowhere—in spite of the fact + that they moved faster. + </p> + <p> + When he was fourteen, he went to work on the starcher. It was a colossal + event. Something had at last happened that could be remembered beyond a + night's sleep or a week's pay-day. It marked an era. It was a machine + Olympiad, a thing to date from. “When I went to work on the starcher,” or, + “after,” or “before I went to work on the starcher,” were sentences often + on his lips. + </p> + <p> + He celebrated his sixteenth birthday by going into the loom room and + taking a loom. Here was an incentive again, for it was piece-work. And he + excelled, because the clay of him had been moulded by the mills into the + perfect machine. At the end of three months he was running two looms, and, + later, three and four. + </p> + <p> + At the end of his second year at the looms he was turning out more yards + than any other weaver, and more than twice as much as some of the less + skilful ones. And at home things began to prosper as he approached the + full stature of his earning power. Not, however, that his increased + earnings were in excess of need. The children were growing up. They ate + more. And they were going to school, and school-books cost money. And + somehow, the faster he worked, the faster climbed the prices of things. + Even the rent went up, though the house had fallen from bad to worse + disrepair. + </p> + <p> + He had grown taller; but with his increased height he seemed leaner than + ever. Also, he was more nervous. With the nervousness increased his + peevishness and irritability. The children had learned by many bitter + lessons to fight shy of him. His mother respected him for his earning + power, but somehow her respect was tinctured with fear. + </p> + <p> + There was no joyousness in life for him. The procession of the days he + never saw. The nights he slept away in twitching unconsciousness. The rest + of the time he worked, and his consciousness was machine consciousness. + Outside this his mind was a blank. He had no ideals, and but one illusion; + namely, that he drank excellent coffee. He was a work-beast. He had no + mental life whatever; yet deep down in the crypts of his mind, unknown to + him, were being weighed and sifted every hour of his toil, every movement + of his hands, every twitch of his muscles, and preparations were making + for a future course of action that would amaze him and all his little + world. + </p> + <p> + It was in the late spring that he came home from work one night aware of + unusual tiredness. There was a keen expectancy in the air as he sat down + to the table, but he did not notice. He went through the meal in moody + silence, mechanically eating what was before him. The children um'd and + ah'd and made smacking noises with their mouths. But he was deaf to them. + </p> + <p> + “D'ye know what you're eatin'?” his mother demanded at last, desperately. + </p> + <p> + He looked vacantly at the dish before him, and vacantly at her. + </p> + <p> + “Floatin' island,” she announced triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Floating island!” the children chorussed loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he said. And after two or three mouthfuls, he added, “I guess I + ain't hungry to-night.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped the spoon, shoved back his chair, and arose wearily from the + table. + </p> + <p> + “An' I guess I'll go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + His feet dragged more heavily than usual as he crossed the kitchen floor. + Undressing was a Titan's task, a monstrous futility, and he wept weakly as + he crawled into bed, one shoe still on. He was aware of a rising, swelling + something inside his head that made his brain thick and fuzzy. His lean + fingers felt as big as his wrist, while in the ends of them was a + remoteness of sensation vague and fuzzy like his brain. The small of his + back ached intolerably. All his bones ached. He ached everywhere. And in + his head began the shrieking, pounding, crashing, roaring of a million + looms. All space was filled with flying shuttles. They darted in and out, + intricately, amongst the stars. He worked a thousand looms himself, and + ever they speeded up, faster and faster, and his brain unwound, faster and + faster, and became the thread that fed the thousand flying shuttles. + </p> + <p> + He did not go to work next morning. He was too busy weaving colossally on + the thousand looms that ran inside his head. His mother went to work, but + first she sent for the doctor. It was a severe attack of la grippe, he + said. Jennie served as nurse and carried out his instructions. + </p> + <p> + It was a very severe attack, and it was a week before Johnny dressed and + tottered feebly across the floor. Another week, the doctor said, and he + would be fit to return to work. The foreman of the loom room visited him + on Sunday afternoon, the first day of his convalescence. The best weaver + in the room, the foreman told his mother. His job would be held for him. + He could come back to work a week from Monday. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you thank 'im, Johnny?” his mother asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “He's ben that sick he ain't himself yet,” she explained apologetically to + the visitor. + </p> + <p> + Johnny sat hunched up and gazing steadfastly at the floor. He sat in the + same position long after the foreman had gone. It was warm outdoors, and + he sat on the stoop in the afternoon. Sometimes his lips moved. He seemed + lost in endless calculations. + </p> + <p> + Next morning, after the day grew warm, he took his seat on the stoop. He + had pencil and paper this time with which to continue his calculations, + and he calculated painfully and amazingly. + </p> + <p> + “What comes after millions?” he asked at noon, when Will came home from + school. “An' how d'ye work 'em?” + </p> + <p> + That afternoon finished his task. Each day, but without paper and pencil, + he returned to the stoop. He was greatly absorbed in the one tree that + grew across the street. He studied it for hours at a time, and was + unusually interested when the wind swayed its branches and fluttered its + leaves. Throughout the week he seemed lost in a great communion with + himself. On Sunday, sitting on the stoop, he laughed aloud, several times, + to the perturbation of his mother, who had not heard him laugh for years. + </p> + <p> + Next morning, in the early darkness, she came to his bed to rouse him. He + had had his fill of sleep all the week, and awoke easily. He made no + struggle, nor did he attempt to hold on to the bedding when she stripped + it from him. He lay quietly, and spoke quietly. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't no use, ma.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll be late,” she said, under the impression that he was still stupid + with sleep. + </p> + <p> + “I'm awake, ma, an' I tell you it ain't no use. You might as well lemme + alone. I ain't goin' to git up.” + </p> + <p> + “But you'll lose your job!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't goin' to git up,” he repeated in a strange, passionless voice. + </p> + <p> + She did not go to work herself that morning. This was sickness beyond any + sickness she had ever known. Fever and delirium she could understand; but + this was insanity. She pulled the bedding up over him and sent Jennie for + the doctor. + </p> + <p> + When that person arrived, Johnny was sleeping gently, and gently he awoke + and allowed his pulse to be taken. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing the matter with him,” the doctor reported. “Badly debilitated, + that's all. Not much meat on his bones.” + </p> + <p> + “He's always been that way,” his mother volunteered. + </p> + <p> + “Now go 'way, ma, an' let me finish my snooze.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny spoke sweetly and placidly, and sweetly and placidly he rolled over + on his side and went to sleep. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock he awoke and dressed himself. He walked out into the + kitchen, where he found his mother with a frightened expression on her + face. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin' away, ma,” he announced, “an' I jes' want to say good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + She threw her apron over her head and sat down suddenly and wept. He + waited patiently. + </p> + <p> + “I might a-known it,” she was sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” she finally asked, removing the apron from her head and gazing up + at him with a stricken face in which there was little curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke, the tree across the street appeared with dazzling brightness + on his inner vision. It seemed to lurk just under his eyelids, and he + could see it whenever he wished. + </p> + <p> + “An' your job?” she quavered. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never goin' to work again.” + </p> + <p> + “My God, Johnny!” she wailed, “don't say that!” + </p> + <p> + What he had said was blasphemy to her. As a mother who hears her child + deny God, was Johnny's mother shocked by his words. + </p> + <p> + “What's got into you, anyway?” she demanded, with a lame attempt at + imperativeness. + </p> + <p> + “Figures,” he answered. “Jes' figures. I've ben doin' a lot of figurin' + this week, an' it's most surprisin'.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see what that's got to do with it,” she sniffled. + </p> + <p> + Johnny smiled patiently, and his mother was aware of a distinct shock at + the persistent absence of his peevishness and irritability. + </p> + <p> + “I'll show you,” he said. “I'm plum' tired out. What makes me tired? + Moves. I've ben movin' ever since I was born. I'm tired of movin', an' I + ain't goin' to move any more. Remember when I worked in the glass-house? I + used to do three hundred dozen a day. Now I reckon I made about ten + different moves to each bottle. That's thirty-six thousan' moves a day. + Ten days, three hundred an' sixty thousan' moves. One month, one million + an' eighty thousan' moves. Chuck out the eighty thousan'”—he spoke + with the complacent beneficence of a philanthropist—“chuck out the + eighty thousan', that leaves a million moves a month—twelve million + moves a year. + </p> + <p> + “At the looms I'm movin' twic'st as much. That makes twenty-five million + moves a year, an' it seems to me I've ben a movin' that way 'most a + million years. + </p> + <p> + “Now this week I ain't moved at all. I ain't made one move in hours an' + hours. I tell you it was swell, jes' settin' there, hours an' hours, an' + doin' nothin'. I ain't never ben happy before. I never had any time. I've + ben movin' all the time. That ain't no way to be happy. An' I ain't going + to do it any more. I'm jes' goin' to set, an' set, an' rest, an' rest, and + then rest some more.” + </p> + <p> + “But what's goin' to come of Will an' the children?” she asked + despairingly. + </p> + <p> + “That's it, 'Will an' the children,'” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + But there was no bitterness in his voice. He had long known his mother's + ambition for the younger boy, but the thought of it no longer rankled. + Nothing mattered any more. Not even that. + </p> + <p> + “I know, ma, what you've ben plannin' for Will—keepin' him in school + to make a book-keeper out of him. But it ain't no use, I've quit. He's got + to go to work.” + </p> + <p> + “An' after I have brung you up the way I have,” she wept, starting to + cover her head with the apron and changing her mind. + </p> + <p> + “You never brung me up,” he answered with sad kindliness. “I brung myself + up, ma, an' I brung up Will. He's bigger'n me, an' heavier, an' taller. + When I was a kid, I reckon I didn't git enough to eat. When he come along + an' was a kid, I was workin' an' earnin' grub for him too. But that's done + with. Will can go to work, same as me, or he can go to hell, I don't care + which. I'm tired. I'm goin' now. Ain't you goin' to say goodbye?” + </p> + <p> + She made no reply. The apron had gone over her head again, and she was + crying. He paused a moment in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I done the best I knew how,” she was sobbing. + </p> + <p> + He passed out of the house and down the street. A wan delight came into + his face at the sight of the lone tree. “Jes' ain't goin' to do nothin',” + he said to himself, half aloud, in a crooning tone. He glanced wistfully + up at the sky, but the bright sun dazzled and blinded him. + </p> + <p> + It was a long walk he took, and he did not walk fast. It took him past the + jute-mill. The muffled roar of the loom room came to his ears, and he + smiled. It was a gentle, placid smile. He hated no one, not even the + pounding, shrieking machines. There was no bitterness in him, nothing but + an inordinate hunger for rest. + </p> + <p> + The houses and factories thinned out and the open spaces increased as he + approached the country. At last the city was behind him, and he was + walking down a leafy lane beside the railroad track. He did not walk like + a man. He did not look like a man. He was a travesty of the human. It was + a twisted and stunted and nameless piece of life that shambled like a + sickly ape, arms loose-hanging, stoop-shouldered, narrow-chested, + grotesque and terrible. + </p> + <p> + He passed by a small railroad station and lay down in the grass under a + tree. All afternoon he lay there. Sometimes he dozed, with muscles that + twitched in his sleep. When awake, he lay without movement, watching the + birds or looking up at the sky through the branches of the tree above him. + Once or twice he laughed aloud, but without relevance to anything he had + seen or felt. + </p> + <p> + After twilight had gone, in the first darkness of the night, a freight + train rumbled into the station. When the engine was switching cars on to + the side-track, Johnny crept along the side of the train. He pulled open + the side-door of an empty box-car and awkwardly and laboriously climbed + in. He closed the door. The engine whistled. Johnny was lying down, and in + the darkness he smiled. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WICKED WOMAN + </h2> + <p> + It was because she had broken with Billy that Loretta had come visiting to + Santa Clara. Billy could not understand. His sister had reported that he + had walked the floor and cried all night. Loretta had not slept all night + either, while she had wept most of the night. Daisy knew this, because it + was in her arms that the weeping had been done. And Daisy's husband, + Captain Kitt, knew, too. The tears of Loretta, and the comforting by + Daisy, had lost him some sleep. + </p> + <p> + Now Captain Kitt did not like to lose sleep. Neither did he want Loretta + to marry Billy—nor anybody else. It was Captain Kitt's belief that + Daisy needed the help of her younger sister in the household. But he did + not say this aloud. Instead, he always insisted that Loretta was too young + to think of marriage. So it was Captain Kitt's idea that Loretta should be + packed off on a visit to Mrs. Hemingway. There wouldn't be any Billy + there. + </p> + <p> + Before Loretta had been at Santa Clara a week, she was convinced that + Captain Kitt's idea was a good one. In the first place, though Billy + wouldn't believe it, she did not want to marry Billy. And in the second + place, though Captain Kitt wouldn't believe it, she did not want to leave + Daisy. By the time Loretta had been at Santa Clara two weeks, she was + absolutely certain that she did not want to marry Billy. But she was not + so sure about not wanting to leave Daisy. Not that she loved Daisy less, + but that she—had doubts. + </p> + <p> + The day of Loretta's arrival, a nebulous plan began shaping itself in Mrs. + Hemingway's brain. The second day she remarked to Jack Hemingway, her + husband, that Loretta was so innocent a young thing that were it not for + her sweet guilelessness she would be positively stupid. In proof of which, + Mrs. Hemingway told her husband several things that made him chuckle. By + the third day Mrs. Hemingway's plan had taken recognizable form. Then it + was that she composed a letter. On the envelope she wrote: “Mr. Edward + Bashford, Athenian Club, San Francisco.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Ned,” the letter began. She had once been violently loved by him for + three weeks in her pre-marital days. But she had covenanted herself to + Jack Hemingway, who had prior claims, and her heart as well; and Ned + Bashford had philosophically not broken his heart over it. He merely added + the experience to a large fund of similarly collected data out of which he + manufactured philosophy. Artistically and temperamentally he was a Greek—a + tired Greek. He was fond of quoting from Nietzsche, in token that he, too, + had passed through the long sickness that follows upon the ardent search + for truth; that he too had emerged, too experienced, too shrewd, too + profound, ever again to be afflicted by the madness of youths in their + love of truth. “'To worship appearance,'” he often quoted; “'to believe in + forms, in tones, in words, in the whole Olympus of appearance!'” This + particular excerpt he always concluded with, “'Those Greeks were + superficial—OUT OF PROFUNDITY!'” + </p> + <p> + He was a fairly young Greek, jaded and worn. Women were faithless and + unveracious, he held—at such times that he had relapses and + descended to pessimism from his wonted high philosophical calm. He did not + believe in the truth of women; but, faithful to his German master, he did + not strip from them the airy gauzes that veiled their untruth. He was + content to accept them as appearances and to make the best of it. He was + superficial—OUT OF PROFUNDITY. + </p> + <p> + “Jack says to be sure to say to you, 'good swimming,'” Mrs. Hemingway + wrote in her letter; “and also 'to bring your fishing duds along.'” Mrs. + Hemingway wrote other things in the letter. She told him that at last she + was prepared to exhibit to him an absolutely true, unsullied, and innocent + woman. “A more guileless, immaculate bud of womanhood never blushed on the + planet,” was one of the several ways in which she phrased the inducement. + And to her husband she said triumphantly, “If I don't marry Ned off this + time—” leaving unstated the terrible alternative that she lacked + either vocabulary to express or imagination to conceive. + </p> + <p> + Contrary to all her forebodings, Loretta found that she was not unhappy at + Santa Clara. Truly, Billy wrote to her every day, but his letters were + less distressing than his presence. Also, the ordeal of being away from + Daisy was not so severe as she had expected. For the first time in her + life she was not lost in eclipse in the blaze of Daisy's brilliant and + mature personality. Under such favourable circumstances Loretta came + rapidly to the front, while Mrs. Hemingway modestly and shamelessly + retreated into the background. + </p> + <p> + Loretta began to discover that she was not a pale orb shining by + reflection. Quite unconsciously she became a small centre of things. When + she was at the piano, there was some one to turn the pages for her and to + express preferences for certain songs. When she dropped her handkerchief, + there was some one to pick it up. And there was some one to accompany her + in ramblings and flower gatherings. Also, she learned to cast flies in + still pools and below savage riffles, and how not to entangle silk lines + and gut-leaders with the shrubbery. + </p> + <p> + Jack Hemingway did not care to teach beginners, and fished much by + himself, or not at all, thus giving Ned Bashford ample time in which to + consider Loretta as an appearance. As such, she was all that his + philosophy demanded. Her blue eyes had the direct gaze of a boy, and out + of his profundity he delighted in them and forbore to shudder at the + duplicity his philosophy bade him to believe lurked in their depths. She + had the grace of a slender flower, the fragility of colour and line of + fine china, in all of which he pleasured greatly, without thought of the + Life Force palpitating beneath and in spite of Bernard Shaw—in whom + he believed. + </p> + <p> + Loretta burgeoned. She swiftly developed personality. She discovered a + will of her own and wishes of her own that were not everlastingly entwined + with the will and the wishes of Daisy. She was petted by Jack Hemingway, + spoiled by Alice Hemingway, and devotedly attended by Ned Bashford. They + encouraged her whims and laughed at her follies, while she developed the + pretty little tyrannies that are latent in all pretty and delicate women. + Her environment acted as a soporific upon her ancient desire always to + live with Daisy. This desire no longer prodded her as in the days of her + companionship with Billy. The more she saw of Billy, the more certain she + had been that she could not live away from Daisy. The more she saw of Ned + Bashford, the more she forgot her pressing need of Daisy. + </p> + <p> + Ned Bashford likewise did some forgetting. He confused superficiality with + profundity, and entangled appearance with reality until he accounted them + one. Loretta was different from other women. There was no masquerade about + her. She was real. He said as much to Mrs. Hemingway, and more, who agreed + with him and at the same time caught her husband's eyelid drooping down + for the moment in an unmistakable wink. + </p> + <p> + It was at this time that Loretta received a letter from Billy that was + somewhat different from his others. In the main, like all his letters, it + was pathological. It was a long recital of symptoms and sufferings, his + nervousness, his sleeplessness, and the state of his heart. Then followed + reproaches, such as he had never made before. They were sharp enough to + make her weep, and true enough to put tragedy into her face. This tragedy + she carried down to the breakfast table. It made Jack and Mrs. Hemingway + speculative, and it worried Ned. They glanced to him for explanation, but + he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I'll find out to-night,” Mrs. Hemingway said to her husband. + </p> + <p> + But Ned caught Loretta in the afternoon in the big living-room. She tried + to turn away. He caught her hands, and she faced him with wet lashes and + trembling lips. He looked at her, silently and kindly. The lashes grew + wetter. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, don't cry, little one,” he said soothingly. + </p> + <p> + He put his arm protectingly around her shoulder. And to his shoulder, like + a tired child, she turned her face. He thrilled in ways unusual for a + Greek who has recovered from the long sickness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ned,” she sobbed on his shoulder, “if you only knew how wicked I am!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled indulgently, and breathed in a great breath freighted with the + fragrance of her hair. He thought of his world-experience of women, and + drew another long breath. There seemed to emanate from her the perfect + sweetness of a child—“the aura of a white soul,” was the way he + phrased it to himself. + </p> + <p> + Then he noticed that her sobs were increasing. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter, little one?” he asked pettingly and almost paternally. + “Has Jack been bullying you? Or has your dearly beloved sister failed to + write?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, and he felt that he really must kiss her hair, that he + could not be responsible if the situation continued much longer. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” he said gently, “and we'll see what I can do.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't. You will despise me.—Oh, Ned, I am so ashamed!” + </p> + <p> + He laughed incredulously, and lightly touched her hair with his lips—so + lightly that she did not know. + </p> + <p> + “Dear little one, let us forget all about it, whatever it is. I want to + tell you how I love—” + </p> + <p> + She uttered a sharp cry that was all delight, and then moaned— + </p> + <p> + “Too late!” + </p> + <p> + “Too late?” he echoed in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why did I? Why did I?” she was moaning. + </p> + <p> + He was aware of a swift chill at his heart. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I... he... Billy. + </p> + <p> + “I am such a wicked woman, Ned. I know you will never speak to me again.” + </p> + <p> + “This—er—this Billy,” he began haltingly. “He is your + brother?” + </p> + <p> + “No... he... I didn't know. I was so young. I could not help it. Oh, I + shall go mad! I shall go mad!” + </p> + <p> + It was then that Loretta felt his shoulder and the encircling arm become + limp. He drew away from her gently, and gently he deposited her in a big + chair, where she buried her face and sobbed afresh. He twisted his + moustache fiercely, then drew up another chair and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “I—I do not understand,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I am so unhappy,” she wailed. + </p> + <p> + “Why unhappy?” + </p> + <p> + “Because... he... he wants me to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + His face cleared on the instant, and he placed a hand soothingly on hers. + </p> + <p> + “That should not make any girl unhappy,” he remarked sagely. “Because you + don't love him is no reason—of course, you don't love him?” + </p> + <p> + Loretta shook her head and shoulders in a vigorous negative. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + Bashford wanted to make sure. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she asserted explosively. “I don't love Billy! I don't want to love + Billy!” + </p> + <p> + “Because you don't love him,” Bashford resumed with confidence, “is no + reason that you should be unhappy just because he has proposed to you.” + </p> + <p> + She sobbed again, and from the midst of her sobs she cried— + </p> + <p> + “That's the trouble. I wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead!” + </p> + <p> + “Now, my dear child, you are worrying yourself over trifles.” His other + hand crossed over after its mate and rested on hers. “Women do it every + day. Because you have changed your mind or did not know your mind, because + you have—to use an unnecessarily harsh word—jilted a man—” + </p> + <p> + “Jilted!” She had raised her head and was looking at him with tear-dimmed + eyes. “Oh, Ned, if that were all!” + </p> + <p> + “All?” he asked in a hollow voice, while his hands slowly retreated from + hers. He was about to speak further, then remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want to marry him,” Loretta broke forth protestingly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I shouldn't,” he counselled. + </p> + <p> + “But I ought to marry him.” + </p> + <p> + “OUGHT to marry him?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “That is a strong word.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it is,” she acquiesced, while she strove to control her trembling + lips. Then she spoke more calmly. “I am a wicked woman, a terribly wicked + woman. No one knows how wicked I am—except Billy.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. Ned Bashford's face was grave, and he looked queerly at + Loretta. + </p> + <p> + “He—Billy knows?” he asked finally. + </p> + <p> + A reluctant nod and flaming cheeks was the reply. + </p> + <p> + He debated with himself for a while, seeming, like a diver, to be + preparing himself for the plunge. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it.” He spoke very firmly. “You must tell me all of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And will you—ever—forgive me?” she asked in a faint, small + voice. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, drew a long breath, and made the plunge. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said desperately. “I'll forgive you. Go ahead.” + </p> + <p> + “There was no one to tell me,” she began. “We were with each other so + much. I did not know anything of the world—then.” + </p> + <p> + She paused to meditate. Bashford was biting his lip impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “If I had only known—” + </p> + <p> + She paused again. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, go on,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “We were together almost every evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Billy?” he demanded, with a savageness that startled her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course, Billy. We were with each other so much... If I had only + known... There was no one to tell me... I was so young—” + </p> + <p> + Her lips parted as though to speak further, and she regarded him + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “The scoundrel!” + </p> + <p> + With the explosion Ned Bashford was on his feet, no longer a tired Greek, + but a violently angry young man. + </p> + <p> + “Billy is not a scoundrel; he is a good man,” Loretta defended, with a + firmness that surprised Bashford. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you'll be telling me next that it was all your fault,” he said + sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “It was all my fault,” she said steadily. “I should never have let him. I + was to blame.” + </p> + <p> + Bashford ceased from his pacing up and down, and when he spoke, his voice + was resigned. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said. “I don't blame you in the least, Loretta. And you + have been very honest. But Billy is right, and you are wrong. You must get + married.” + </p> + <p> + “To Billy?” she asked, in a dim, far-away voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to Billy. I'll see to it. Where does he live? I'll make him.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want to marry Billy!” she cried out in alarm. “Oh, Ned, you + won't do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall,” he answered sternly. “You must. And Billy must. Do you + understand?” + </p> + <p> + Loretta buried her face in the cushioned chair back, and broke into a + passionate storm of sobs. + </p> + <p> + All that Bashford could make out at first, as he listened, was: “But I + don't want to leave Daisy! I don't want to leave Daisy!” + </p> + <p> + He paced grimly back and forth, then stopped curiously to listen. + </p> + <p> + “How was I to know?—Boo—hoo,” Loretta was crying. “He didn't + tell me. Nobody else ever kissed me. I never dreamed a kiss could be so + terrible... until, boo-hoo... until he wrote to me. I only got the letter + this morning.” + </p> + <p> + His face brightened. It seemed as though light was dawning on him. + </p> + <p> + “Is that what you're crying about?” + </p> + <p> + “N—no.” + </p> + <p> + His heart sank. + </p> + <p> + “Then what are you crying about?” he asked in a hopeless voice. + </p> + <p> + “Because you said I had to marry Billy. And I don't want to marry Billy. I + don't want to leave Daisy. I don't know what I want. I wish I were dead.” + </p> + <p> + He nerved himself for another effort. + </p> + <p> + “Now look here, Loretta, be sensible. What is this about kisses. You + haven't told me everything?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don't want to tell you everything.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him beseechingly in the silence that fell. + </p> + <p> + “Must I?” she quavered finally. + </p> + <p> + “You must,” he said imperatively. “You must tell me everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then... must I?” + </p> + <p> + “You must.” + </p> + <p> + “He... I... we...” she began flounderingly. Then blurted out, “I let him, + and he kissed me.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Bashford commanded desperately. + </p> + <p> + “That's all,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “All?” There was a vast incredulity in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “All?” In her voice was an interrogation no less vast. + </p> + <p> + “I mean—er—nothing worse?” He was overwhelmingly aware of his + own awkwardness. + </p> + <p> + “Worse?” She was frankly puzzled. “As though there could be! Billy said—” + </p> + <p> + “When did he say it?” Bashford demanded abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “In his letter I got this morning. Billy said that my... our... our kisses + were terrible if we didn't get married.” + </p> + <p> + Bashford's head was swimming. + </p> + <p> + “What else did Billy say?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He said that when a woman allowed a man to kiss her, she always married + him—that it was terrible if she didn't. It was the custom, he said; + and I say it is a bad, wicked custom, and I don't like it. I know I'm + terrible,” she added defiantly, “but I can't help it.” + </p> + <p> + Bashford absent-mindedly brought out a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked, as he struck a match. + </p> + <p> + Then he came to himself. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he cried, flinging away match and cigarette. “I don't + want to smoke. I didn't mean that at all. What I mean is—” + </p> + <p> + He bent over Loretta, caught her hands in his, then sat on the arm of the + chair and softly put one arm around her. + </p> + <p> + “Loretta, I am a fool. I mean it. And I mean something more. I want you to + be my wife.” + </p> + <p> + He waited anxiously in the pause that followed. + </p> + <p> + “You might answer me,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “I will... if—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, go on. If what?” + </p> + <p> + “If I don't have to marry Billy.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't marry both of us,” he almost shouted. + </p> + <p> + “And it isn't the custom... what... what Billy said?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it isn't the custom. Now, Loretta, will you marry me?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be angry with me,” she pouted demurely. + </p> + <p> + He gathered her into his arms and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it were the custom,” she said in a faint voice, from the midst of + the embrace, “because then I'd have to marry you, Ned dear... wouldn't I?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUST MEAT + </h2> + <p> + He strolled to the corner and glanced up and down the intersecting street, + but saw nothing save the oases of light shed by the street lamps at the + successive crossings. Then he strolled back the way he had come. He was a + shadow of a man, sliding noiselessly and without undue movement through + the semi-darkness. Also he was very alert, like a wild animal in the + jungle, keenly perceptive and receptive. The movement of another in the + darkness about him would need to have been more shadowy than he to have + escaped him. + </p> + <p> + In addition to the running advertisement of the state of affairs carried + to him by his senses, he had a subtler perception, a FEEL, of the + atmosphere around him. He knew that the house in front of which he paused + for a moment, contained children. Yet by no willed effort of perception + did he have this knowledge. For that matter, he was not even aware that he + knew, so occult was the impression. Yet, did a moment arise in which + action, in relation to that house, were imperative, he would have acted on + the assumption that it contained children. He was not aware of all that he + knew about the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + In the same way, he knew not how, he knew that no danger threatened in the + footfalls that came up the cross street. Before he saw the walker, he knew + him for a belated pedestrian hurrying home. The walker came into view at + the crossing and disappeared on up the street. The man that watched, noted + a light that flared up in the window of a house on the corner, and as it + died down he knew it for an expiring match. This was conscious + identification of familiar phenomena, and through his mind flitted the + thought, “Wanted to know what time.” In another house one room was + lighted. The light burned dimly and steadily, and he had the feel that it + was a sick-room. + </p> + <p> + He was especially interested in a house across the street in the middle of + the block. To this house he paid most attention. No matter what way he + looked, nor what way he walked, his looks and his steps always returned to + it. Except for an open window above the porch, there was nothing unusual + about the house. Nothing came in nor out. Nothing happened. There were no + lighted windows, nor had lights appeared and disappeared in any of the + windows. Yet it was the central point of his consideration. He rallied to + it each time after a divination of the state of the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + Despite his feel of things, he was not confident. He was supremely + conscious of the precariousness of his situation. Though unperturbed by + the footfalls of the chance pedestrian, he was as keyed up and sensitive + and ready to be startled as any timorous deer. He was aware of the + possibility of other intelligences prowling about in the darkness—intelligences + similar to his own in movement, perception, and divination. + </p> + <p> + Far down the street he caught a glimpse of something that moved. And he + knew it was no late home-goer, but menace and danger. He whistled twice to + the house across the street, then faded away shadow-like to the corner and + around the corner. Here he paused and looked about him carefully. + Reassured, he peered back around the corner and studied the object that + moved and that was coming nearer. He had divined aright. It was a + policeman. + </p> + <p> + The man went down the cross street to the next corner, from the shelter of + which he watched the corner he had just left. He saw the policeman pass + by, going straight on up the street. He paralleled the policeman's course, + and from the next corner again watched him go by; then he returned the way + he had come. He whistled once to the house across the street, and after a + time whistled once again. There was reassurance in the whistle, just as + there had been warning in the previous double whistle. + </p> + <p> + He saw a dark bulk outline itself on the roof of the porch and slowly + descend a pillar. Then it came down the steps, passed through the small + iron gate, and went down the sidewalk, taking on the form of a man. He + that watched kept on his own side of the street and moved on abreast to + the corner, where he crossed over and joined the other. He was quite small + alongside the man he accosted. + </p> + <p> + “How'd you make out, Matt?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The other grunted indistinctly, and walked on in silence a few steps. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I landed the goods,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Jim chuckled in the darkness, and waited for further information. The + blocks passed by under their feet, and he grew impatient. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how about them goods?” he asked. “What kind of a haul did you make, + anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “I was too busy to figger it out, but it's fat. I can tell you that much, + Jim, it's fat. I don't dast to think how fat it is. Wait till we get to + the room.” + </p> + <p> + Jim looked at him keenly under the street lamp of the next crossing, and + saw that his face was a trifle grim and that he carried his left arm + peculiarly. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with your arm?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “The little cuss bit me. Hope I don't get hydrophoby. Folks gets + hydrophoby from manbite sometimes, don't they?” + </p> + <p> + “Gave you fight, eh?” Jim asked encouragingly. + </p> + <p> + The other grunted. + </p> + <p> + “You're harder'n hell to get information from,” Jim burst out irritably. + “Tell us about it. You ain't goin' to lose money just a-tellin' a guy.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess I choked him some,” came the answer. Then, by way of explanation, + “He woke up on me.” + </p> + <p> + “You did it neat. I never heard a sound.” + </p> + <p> + “Jim,” the other said with seriousness, “it's a hangin' matter. I fixed + 'm. I had to. He woke up on me. You an' me's got to do some layin' low for + a spell.” + </p> + <p> + Jim gave a low whistle of comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear me whistle?” he asked suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Sure. I was all done. I was just comin' out.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a bull. But he wasn't on a little bit. Went right by an' kept + a-paddin' the hoof out a sight. Then I come back an' gave you the whistle. + What made you take so long after that?” + </p> + <p> + “I was waitin' to make sure,” Matt explained. “I was mighty glad when I + heard you whistle again. It's hard work waitin'. I just sat there an' + thought an' thought... oh, all kinds of things. It's remarkable what a + fellow'll think about. And then there was a darn cat that kept movin' + around the house all' botherin' me with its noises.” + </p> + <p> + “An' it's fat!” Jim exclaimed irrelevantly and with joy. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure tellin' you, Jim, it's fat. I'm plum' anxious for another look + at 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Unconsciously the two men quickened their pace. Yet they did not relax + from their caution. Twice they changed their course in order to avoid + policemen, and they made very sure that they were not observed when they + dived into the dark hallway of a cheap rooming house down town. + </p> + <p> + Not until they had gained their own room on the top floor, did they + scratch a match. While Jim lighted a lamp, Matt locked the door and threw + the bolts into place. As he turned, he noticed that his partner was + waiting expectantly. Matt smiled to himself at the other's eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “Them search-lights is all right,” he said, drawing forth a small pocket + electric lamp and examining it. “But we got to get a new battery. It's + runnin' pretty weak. I thought once or twice it'd leave me in the dark. + Funny arrangements in that house. I near got lost. His room was on the + left, an' that fooled me some.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you it was on the left,” Jim interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “You told me it was on the right,” Matt went on. “I guess I know what you + told me, an' there's the map you drew.” + </p> + <p> + Fumbling in his vest pocket, he drew out a folded slip of paper. As he + unfolded it, Jim bent over and looked. + </p> + <p> + “I did make a mistake,” he confessed. + </p> + <p> + “You sure did. It got me guessin' some for a while.” + </p> + <p> + “But it don't matter now,” Jim cried. “Let's see what you got.” + </p> + <p> + “It does matter,” Matt retorted. “It matters a lot... to me. I've got to + run all the risk. I put my head in the trap while you stay on the street. + You got to get on to yourself an' be more careful. All right, I'll show + you.” + </p> + <p> + He dipped loosely into his trousers pocket and brought out a handful of + small diamonds. He spilled them out in a blazing stream on the greasy + table. Jim let out a great oath. + </p> + <p> + “That's nothing,” Matt said with triumphant complacence. “I ain't begun + yet.” + </p> + <p> + From one pocket after another he continued bringing forth the spoil. There + were many diamonds wrapped in chamois skin that were larger than those in + the first handful. From one pocket he brought out a handful of very small + cut gems. + </p> + <p> + “Sun dust,” he remarked, as he spilled them on the table in a space by + themselves. + </p> + <p> + Jim examined them. + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, they retail for a couple of dollars each,” he said. “Is + that all?” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't it enough?” the other demanded in an aggrieved tone. + </p> + <p> + “Sure it is,” Jim answered with unqualified approval. “Better'n I + expected. I wouldn't take a cent less than ten thousan' for the bunch.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousan',” Matt sneered. “They're worth twic't that, an' I don't know + anything about joolery, either. Look at that big boy!” + </p> + <p> + He picked it out from the sparkling heap and held it near to the lamp with + the air of an expert, weighing and judging. + </p> + <p> + “Worth a thousan' all by its lonely,” was Jim's quicker judgment. + </p> + <p> + “A thousan' your grandmother,” was Matt's scornful rejoinder. “You + couldn't buy it for three.” + </p> + <p> + “Wake me up! I'm dreamin'!” The sparkle of the gems was in Jim's eyes, and + he began sorting out the larger diamonds and examining them. “We're rich + men, Matt—we'll be regular swells.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll take years to get rid of 'em,” was Matt's more practical thought. + </p> + <p> + “But think how we'll live! Nothin' to do but spend the money an' go on + gettin' rid of em.” + </p> + <p> + Matt's eyes were beginning to sparkle, though sombrely, as his phlegmatic + nature woke up. + </p> + <p> + “I told you I didn't dast think how fat it was,” he murmured in a low + voice. + </p> + <p> + “What a killin'! What a killin'!” was the other's more ecstatic utterance. + </p> + <p> + “I almost forgot,” Matt said, thrusting his hand into his inside coat + pocket. + </p> + <p> + A string of large pearls emerged from wrappings of tissue paper and + chamois skin. Jim scarcely glanced at them. + </p> + <p> + “They're worth money,” he said, and returned to the diamonds. + </p> + <p> + A silence fell on the two men. Jim played with the gems, running them + through his fingers, sorting them into piles, and spreading them out flat + and wide. He was a slender, weazened man, nervous, irritable, high-strung, + and anaemic—a typical child of the gutter, with unbeautiful twisted + features, small-eyed, with face and mouth perpetually and feverishly + hungry, brutish in a cat-like way, stamped to the core with degeneracy. + </p> + <p> + Matt did not finger the diamonds. He sat with chin on hands and elbows on + table, blinking heavily at the blazing array. He was in every way a + contrast to the other. No city had bred him. He was heavy-muscled and + hairy, gorilla-like in strength and aspect. For him there was no unseen + world. His eyes were full and wide apart, and there seemed in them a + certain bold brotherliness. They inspired confidence. But a closer + inspection would have shown that his eyes were just a trifle too full, + just a shade too wide apart. He exceeded, spilled over the limits of + normality, and his features told lies about the man beneath. + </p> + <p> + “The bunch is worth fifty thousan',” Jim remarked suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “A hundred thousan',” Matt said. + </p> + <p> + The silence returned and endured a long time, to be broken again by Jim. + </p> + <p> + “What in hell was he doin' with 'em all at the house?—that's what I + want to know. I'd a-thought he'd kept 'em in the safe down at the store.” + </p> + <p> + Matt had just been considering the vision of the throttled man as he had + last looked upon him in the dim light of the electric lantern; but he did + not start at the mention of him. + </p> + <p> + “There's no tellin',” he answered. “He might a-ben gettin' ready to chuck + his pardner. He might a-pulled out in the mornin' for parts unknown, if we + hadn't happened along. I guess there's just as many thieves among honest + men as there is among thieves. You read about such things in the papers, + Jim. Pardners is always knifin' each other.” + </p> + <p> + A queer, nervous look came into the other's eyes. Matt did not betray that + he noted it, though he said— + </p> + <p> + “What was you thinkin' about, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + Jim was a trifle awkward for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Nothin',” he answered. “Only I was thinkin' just how funny it was—all + them jools at his house. What made you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothin'. I was just wonderin', that was all.” + </p> + <p> + The silence settled down, broken by an occasional low and nervous giggle + on the part of Jim. He was overcome by the spread of gems. It was not that + he felt their beauty. He was unaware that they were beautiful in + themselves. But in them his swift imagination visioned the joys of life + they would buy, and all the desires and appetites of his diseased mind and + sickly flesh were tickled by the promise they extended. He builded + wondrous, orgy-haunted castles out of their brilliant fires, and was + appalled at what he builded. Then it was that he giggled. It was all too + impossible to be real. And yet there they blazed on the table before him, + fanning the flame of the lust of him, and he giggled again. + </p> + <p> + “I guess we might as well count 'em,” Matt said suddenly, tearing himself + away from his own visions. “You watch me an' see that it's square, because + you an' me has got to be on the square, Jim. Understand?” + </p> + <p> + Jim did not like this, and betrayed it in his eyes, while Matt did not + like what he saw in his partner's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Understand?” Matt repeated, almost menacingly. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't we always ben square?” the other replied, on the defensive because + of the treachery already whispering in him. + </p> + <p> + “It don't cost nothin', bein' square in hard times,” Matt retorted. “It's + bein' square in prosperity that counts. When we ain't got nothin', we + can't help bein' square. We're prosperous now, an' we've got to be + business men—honest business men. Understand?” + </p> + <p> + “That's the talk for me,” Jim approved, but deep down in the meagre soul + of him,—and in spite of him,—wanton and lawless thoughts were + stirring like chained beasts. + </p> + <p> + Matt stepped to the food shelf behind the two-burner kerosene cooking + stove. He emptied the tea from a paper bag, and from a second bag emptied + some red peppers. Returning to the table with the bags, he put into them + the two sizes of small diamonds. Then he counted the large gems and + wrapped them in their tissue paper and chamois skin. + </p> + <p> + “Hundred an' forty-seven good-sized ones,” was his inventory; “twenty real + big ones; two big boys and one whopper; an' a couple of fistfuls of teeny + ones an' dust.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Jim. + </p> + <p> + “Correct,” was the response. + </p> + <p> + He wrote the count out on a slip of memorandum paper, and made a copy of + it, giving one slip to his partner and retaining the other. + </p> + <p> + “Just for reference,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Again he had recourse to the food shelf, where he emptied the sugar from a + large paper bag. Into this he thrust the diamonds, large and small, + wrapped it up in a bandanna handkerchief, and stowed it away under his + pillow. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. + </p> + <p> + “An' you think they're worth a hundred thousan'?” Jim asked, pausing and + looking up from the unlacing of his shoe. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” was the answer. “I seen a dance-house girl down in Arizona once, + with some big sparklers on her. They wasn't real. She said if they was she + wouldn't be dancin'. Said they'd be worth all of fifty thousan', an' she + didn't have a dozen of 'em all told.” + </p> + <p> + “Who'd work for a livin'?” Jim triumphantly demanded. “Pick an' shovel + work!” he sneered. “Work like a dog all my life, an' save all my wages, + an' I wouldn't have half as much as we got tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “Dish washin's about your measure, an' you couldn't get more'n twenty a + month an' board. Your figgers is 'way off, but your point is well taken. + Let them that likes it, work. I rode range for thirty a month when I was + young an' foolish. Well, I'm older, an' I ain't ridin' range.” + </p> + <p> + He got into bed on one side. Jim put out the light and followed him in on + the other side. + </p> + <p> + “How's your arm feel?” Jim queried amiably. + </p> + <p> + Such concern was unusual, and Matt noted it, and replied— + </p> + <p> + “I guess there's no danger of hydrophoby. What made you ask?” + </p> + <p> + Jim felt in himself a guilty stir, and under his breath he cursed the + other's way of asking disagreeable questions; but aloud he answered— + </p> + <p> + “Nothin', only you seemed scared of it at first. What are you goin' to do + with your share, Matt?” + </p> + <p> + “Buy a cattle ranch in Arizona an' set down an' pay other men to ride + range for me. There's some several I'd like to see askin' a job from me, + damn them! An' now you shut your face, Jim. It'll be some time before I + buy that ranch. Just now I'm goin' to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + But Jim lay long awake, nervous and twitching, rolling about restlessly + and rolling himself wide awake every time he dozed. The diamonds still + blazed under his eyelids, and the fire of them hurt. Matt, in spite of his + heavy nature, slept lightly, like a wild animal alert in its sleep; and + Jim noticed, every time he moved, that his partner's body moved + sufficiently to show that it had received the impression and that it was + trembling on the verge of awakening. For that matter, Jim did not know + whether or not, frequently, the other was awake. Once, quietly, betokening + complete consciousness, Matt said to him: “Aw, go to sleep, Jim. Don't + worry about them jools. They'll keep.” And Jim had thought that at that + particular moment Matt had been surely asleep. + </p> + <p> + In the late morning Matt was awake with Jim's first movement, and + thereafter he awoke and dozed with him until midday, when they got up + together and began dressing. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin' out to get a paper an' some bread,” Matt said. “You boil the + coffee.” + </p> + <p> + As Jim listened, unconsciously his gaze left Matt's face and roved to the + pillow, beneath which was the bundle wrapped in the bandanna handkerchief. + On the instant Matt's face became like a wild beast's. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Jim,” he snarled. “You've got to play square. If you do me + dirt, I'll fix you. Understand? I'd eat you, Jim. You know that. I'd bite + right into your throat an' eat you like that much beefsteak.” + </p> + <p> + His sunburned skin was black with the surge of blood in it, and his + tobacco-stained teeth were exposed by the snarling lips. Jim shivered and + involuntarily cowered. There was death in the man he looked at. Only the + night before that black-faced man had killed another with his hands, and + it had not hurt his sleep. And in his own heart Jim was aware of a + sneaking guilt, of a train of thought that merited all that was + threatened. + </p> + <p> + Matt passed out, leaving him still shivering. Then a hatred twisted his + own face, and he softly hurled savage curses at the door. He remembered + the jewels, and hastened to the bed, feeling under the pillow for the + bandanna bundle. He crushed it with his fingers to make certain that it + still contained the diamonds. Assured that Matt had not carried them away, + he looked toward the kerosene stove with a guilty start. Then he hurriedly + lighted it, filled the coffee-pot at the sink, and put it over the flame. + </p> + <p> + The coffee was boiling when Matt returned, and while the latter cut the + bread and put a slice of butter on the table, Jim poured out the coffee. + It was not until he sat down and had taken a few sips of the coffee, that + Matt pulled out the morning paper from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “We was way off,” he said. “I told you I didn't dast figger out how fat it + was. Look at that.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the head-lines on the first page. + </p> + <p> + “SWIFT NEMESIS ON BUJANNOFF'S TRACK,” they read. “MURDERED IN HIS SLEEP + AFTER ROBBING HIS PARTNER.” + </p> + <p> + “There you have it!” Matt cried. “He robbed his partner—robbed him + like a dirty thief.” + </p> + <p> + “Half a million of jewels missin',” Jim read aloud. He put the paper down + and stared at Matt. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I told you,” the latter said. “What in hell do we know about + jools? Half a million!—an' the best I could figger it was a hundred + thousan'. Go on an' read the rest of it.” + </p> + <p> + They read on silently, their heads side by side, the untouched coffee + growing cold; and ever and anon one or the other burst forth with some + salient printed fact. + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to seen Metzner's face when he opened the safe at the store this + mornin',” Jim gloated. + </p> + <p> + “He hit the high places right away for Bujannoff's house,” Matt explained. + “Go on an' read.” + </p> + <p> + “Was to have sailed last night at ten on the Sajoda for the South Seas—steamship + delayed by extra freight—” + </p> + <p> + “That's why we caught 'm in bed,” Matt interrupted. “It was just luck—like + pickin' a fifty-to-one winner.” + </p> + <p> + “Sajoda sailed at six this mornin'—” + </p> + <p> + “He didn't catch her,” Matt said. “I saw his alarm-clock was set at five. + That'd given 'm plenty of time... only I come along an' put the kibosh on + his time. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Adolph Metzner in despair—the famous Haythorne pearl necklace—magnificently + assorted pearls—valued by experts at from fifty to seventy thousan' + dollars.” + </p> + <p> + Jim broke off to swear vilely and solemnly, concluding with, “Those damn + oyster-eggs worth all that money!” + </p> + <p> + He licked his lips and added, “They was beauties an' no mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Big Brazilian gem,” he read on. “Eighty thousan' dollars—many + valuable gems of the first water—several thousan' small diamonds + well worth forty thousan'.” + </p> + <p> + “What you don't know about jools is worth knowin',” Matt smiled + good-humouredly. + </p> + <p> + “Theory of the sleuths,” Jim read. “Thieves must have known—cleverly + kept watch on Bujannoff's actions—must have learned his plan and + trailed him to his house with the fruits of his robbery—” + </p> + <p> + “Clever—hell!” Matt broke out. “That's the way reputations is + made... in the noospapers. How'd we know he was robbin' his pardner?” + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, we've got the goods,” Jim grinned. “Let's look at 'em again.” + </p> + <p> + He assured himself that the door was locked and bolted, while Matt brought + out the bundle in the bandanna and opened it on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't they beauties, though!” Jim exclaimed at sight of the pearls; and + for a time he had eyes only for them. “Accordin' to the experts, worth + from fifty to seventy thousan' dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “An' women like them things,” Matt commented. “An' they'll do everything + to get 'em—sell themselves, commit murder, anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Just like you an' me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life,” Matt retorted. “I'll commit murder for 'em, but not + for their own sakes, but for sake of what they'll get me. That's the + difference. Women want the jools for themselves, an' I want the jools for + the women an' such things they'll get me.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky that men an' women don't want the same things,” Jim remarked. + </p> + <p> + “That's what makes commerce,” Matt agreed; “people wantin' different + things.” + </p> + <p> + In the middle of the afternoon Jim went out to buy food. While he was + gone, Matt cleared the table of the jewels, wrapping them up as before and + putting them under the pillow. Then he lighted the kerosene stove and + started to boil water for coffee. A few minutes later, Jim returned. + </p> + <p> + “Most surprising,” he remarked. “Streets, an' stores, an' people just like + they always was. Nothin' changed. An' me walking along through it all a + millionaire. Nobody looked at me an' guessed it.” + </p> + <p> + Matt grunted unsympathetically. He had little comprehension of the lighter + whims and fancies of his partner's imagination. + </p> + <p> + “Did you get a porterhouse?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, an' an inch thick. It's a peach. Look at it.” + </p> + <p> + He unwrapped the steak and held it up for the other's inspection. Then he + made the coffee and set the table, while Matt fried the steak. + </p> + <p> + “Don't put on too much of them red peppers,” Jim warned. “I ain't used to + your Mexican cookin'. You always season too hot.” + </p> + <p> + Matt grunted a laugh and went on with his cooking. Jim poured out the + coffee, but first, into the nicked china cup, he emptied a powder he had + carried in his vest pocket wrapped in a rice-paper. He had turned his back + for the moment on his partner, but he did not dare to glance around at + him. Matt placed a newspaper on the table, and on the newspaper set the + hot frying-pan. He cut the steak in half, and served Jim and himself. + </p> + <p> + “Eat her while she's hot,” he counselled, and with knife and fork set the + example. + </p> + <p> + “She's a dandy,” was Jim's judgment, after his first mouthful. “But I tell + you one thing straight. I'm never goin' to visit you on that Arizona + ranch, so you needn't ask me.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter now?” Matt asked. + </p> + <p> + “Hell's the matter,” was the answer. “The Mexican cookin' on your ranch'd + be too much for me. If I've got hell a-comin' in the next life, I'm not + goin' to torment my insides in this one. Damned peppers!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, expelled his breath forcibly to cool his burning mouth, drank + some coffee, and went on eating the steak. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think about the next life anyway, Matt?” he asked a little + later, while secretly he wondered why the other had not yet touched his + coffee. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't no next life,” Matt answered, pausing from the steak to take his + first sip of coffee. “Nor heaven nor hell, nor nothin'. You get all that's + comin' right here in this life.” + </p> + <p> + “An' afterward?” Jim queried out of his morbid curiosity, for he knew that + he looked upon a man that was soon to die. “An' afterward?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever see a man two weeks dead?” the other asked. + </p> + <p> + Jim shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have. He was like this beefsteak you an' me is eatin'. It was + once steer cavortin' over the landscape. But now it's just meat. That's + all, just meat. An' that's what you an' me an' all people come to—meat.” + </p> + <p> + Matt gulped down the whole cup of coffee, and refilled the cup. + </p> + <p> + “Are you scared to die?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Jim shook his head. “What's the use? I don't die anyway. I pass on an' + live again—” + </p> + <p> + “To go stealin', an' lyin' an' snivellin' through another life, an' go on + that way forever an' ever an' ever?” Matt sneered. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I'll improve,” Jim suggested hopefully. “Maybe stealin' won't be + necessary in the life to come.” + </p> + <p> + He ceased abruptly, and stared straight before him, a frightened + expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter!” Matt demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Nothin'. I was just wonderin'”—Jim returned to himself with an + effort—“about this dyin', that was all.” + </p> + <p> + But he could not shake off the fright that had startled him. It was as if + an unseen thing of gloom had passed him by, casting upon him the + intangible shadow of its presence. He was aware of a feeling of + foreboding. Something ominous was about to happen. Calamity hovered in the + air. He gazed fixedly across the table at the other man. He could not + understand. Was it that he had blundered and poisoned himself? No, Matt + had the nicked cup, and he had certainly put the poison in the nicked cup. + </p> + <p> + It was all his own imagination, was his next thought. It had played him + tricks before. Fool! Of course it was. Of course something was about to + happen, but it was about to happen to Matt. Had not Matt drunk the whole + cup of coffee? + </p> + <p> + Jim brightened up and finished his steak, sopping bread in the gravy when + the meat was gone. + </p> + <p> + “When I was a kid—” he began, but broke off abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Again the unseen thing of gloom had fluttered, and his being was vibrant + with premonition of impending misfortune. He felt a disruptive influence + at work in the flesh of him, and in all his muscles there was a seeming + that they were about to begin to twitch. He sat back suddenly, and as + suddenly leaned forward with his elbows on the table. A tremor ran dimly + through the muscles of his body. It was like the first rustling of leaves + before the oncoming of wind. He clenched his teeth. It came again, a + spasmodic tensing of his muscles. He knew panic at the revolt within his + being. His muscles no longer recognized his mastery over them. Again they + spasmodically tensed, despite the will of him, for he had willed that they + should not tense. This was revolution within himself, this was anarchy; + and the terror of impotence rushed up in him as his flesh gripped and + seemed to seize him in a clutch, chills running up and down his back and + sweat starting on his brow. He glanced about the room, and all the details + of it smote him with a strange sense of familiarity. It was as though he + had just returned from a long journey. He looked across the table at his + partner. Matt was watching him and smiling. An expression of horror spread + over Jim's face. + </p> + <p> + “My God, Matt!” he screamed. “You ain't doped me?” + </p> + <p> + Matt smiled and continued to watch him. In the paroxysm that followed, Jim + did not become unconscious. His muscles tensed and twitched and knotted, + hurting him and crushing him in their savage grip. And in the midst of it + all, it came to him that Matt was acting queerly. He was travelling the + same road. The smile had gone from his face, and there was on it an intent + expression, as if he were listening to some inner tale of himself and + trying to divine the message. Matt got up and walked across the room and + back again, then sat down. + </p> + <p> + “You did this, Jim,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “But I didn't think you'd try to fix ME,” Jim answered reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I fixed you all right,” Matt said, with teeth close together and + shivering body. “What did you give me?” + </p> + <p> + “Strychnine.” + </p> + <p> + “Same as I gave you,” Matt volunteered. “It's a hell of a mess, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “You're lyin', Matt,” Jim pleaded. “You ain't doped me, have you?” + </p> + <p> + “I sure did, Jim; an' I didn't overdose you, neither. I cooked it in as + neat as you please in your half the porterhouse.—Hold on! Where're + you goin'?” + </p> + <p> + Jim had made a dash for the door, and was throwing back the bolts. Matt + sprang in between and shoved him away. + </p> + <p> + “Drug store,” Jim panted. “Drug store.” + </p> + <p> + “No you don't. You'll stay right here. There ain't goin' to be any runnin' + out an' makin' a poison play on the street—not with all them jools + reposin' under the pillow. Savve? Even if you didn't die, you'd be in the + hands of the police with a whole lot of explanations comin'. Emetics is + the stuff for poison. I'm just as bad bit as you, an' I'm goin' to take a + emetic. That's all they'd give you at a drug store, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust Jim back into the middle of the room and shot the bolts into + place. As he went across the floor to the food shelf, he passed one hand + over his brow and flung off the beaded sweat. It spattered audibly on the + floor. Jim watched agonizedly as Matt got the mustard-can and a cup and + ran for the sink. He stirred a cupful of mustard and water and drank it + down. Jim had followed him and was reaching with trembling hands for the + empty cup. Again Matt shoved him away. As he mixed a second cupful, he + demanded— + </p> + <p> + “D'you think one cup'll do for me? You can wait till I'm done.” + </p> + <p> + Jim started to totter toward the door, but Matt checked him. + </p> + <p> + “If you monkey with that door, I'll twist your neck. Savve? You can take + yours when I'm done. An' if it saves you, I'll twist your neck, anyway. + You ain't got no chance, nohow. I told you many times what you'd get if + you did me dirt.” + </p> + <p> + “But you did me dirt, too,” Jim articulated with an effort. + </p> + <p> + Matt was drinking the second cupful, and did not answer. The sweat had got + into Jim's eyes, and he could scarcely see his way to the table, where he + got a cup for himself. But Matt was mixing a third cupful, and, as before, + thrust him away. + </p> + <p> + “I told you to wait till I was done,” Matt growled. “Get outa my way.” + </p> + <p> + And Jim supported his twitching body by holding on to the sink, the while + he yearned toward the yellowish concoction that stood for life. It was by + sheer will that he stood and clung to the sink. His flesh strove to double + him up and bring him to the floor. Matt drank the third cupful, and with + difficulty managed to get to a chair and sit down. His first paroxysm was + passing. The spasms that afflicted him were dying away. This good effect + he ascribed to the mustard and water. He was safe, at any rate. He wiped + the sweat from his face, and, in the interval of calm, found room for + curiosity. He looked at his partner. + </p> + <p> + A spasm had shaken the mustard can out of Jim's hands, and the contents + were spilled upon the floor. He stooped to scoop some of the mustard into + the cup, and the succeeding spasm doubled him upon the floor. Matt smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Stay with it,” he encouraged. “It's the stuff all right. It's fixed me + up.” + </p> + <p> + Jim heard him and turned toward him a stricken face, twisted with + suffering and pleading. Spasm now followed spasm till he was in + convulsions, rolling on the floor and yellowing his face and hair in the + mustard. + </p> + <p> + Matt laughed hoarsely at the sight, but the laugh broke midway. A tremor + had run through his body. A new paroxysm was beginning. He arose and + staggered across to the sink, where, with probing forefinger, he vainly + strove to assist the action of the emetic. In the end, he clung to the + sink as Jim had clung, filled with the horror of going down to the floor. + </p> + <p> + The other's paroxysm had passed, and he sat up, weak and fainting, too + weak to rise, his forehead dripping, his lips flecked with a foam made + yellow by the mustard in which he had rolled. He rubbed his eyes with his + knuckles, and groans that were like whines came from his throat. + </p> + <p> + “What are you snifflin' about?” Matt demanded out of his agony. “All you + got to do is die. An' when you die you're dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I... ain't... snifflin'... it's... the... mustard... stingin'... my... + eyes,” Jim panted with desperate slowness. + </p> + <p> + It was his last successful attempt at speech. Thereafter he babbled + incoherently, pawing the air with shaking arms till a fresh convulsion + stretched him on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Matt struggled back to the chair, and, doubled up on it, with his arms + clasped about his knees, he fought with his disintegrating flesh. He came + out of the convulsion cool and weak. He looked to see how it went with the + other, and saw him lying motionless. + </p> + <p> + He tried to soliloquize, to be facetious, to have his last grim laugh at + life, but his lips made only incoherent sounds. The thought came to him + that the emetic had failed, and that nothing remained but the drug store. + He looked toward the door and drew himself to his feet. There he saved + himself from falling by clutching the chair. Another paroxysm had begun. + And in the midst of the paroxysm, with his body and all the parts of it + flying apart and writhing and twisting back again into knots, he clung to + the chair and shoved it before him across the floor. The last shreds of + his will were leaving him when he gained the door. He turned the key and + shot back one bolt. He fumbled for the second bolt, but failed. Then he + leaned his weight against the door and slid down gently to the floor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CREATED HE THEM + </h2> + <h3> + She met him at the door. + </h3> + <p> + “I did not think you would be so early.” + </p> + <p> + “It is half past eight.” He looked at his watch. “The train leaves at + 9.12.” + </p> + <p> + He was very businesslike, until he saw her lips tremble as she abruptly + turned and led the way. + </p> + <p> + “It'll be all right, little woman,” he said soothingly. “Doctor Bodineau's + the man. He'll pull him through, you'll see.” + </p> + <p> + They entered the living-room. His glance quested apprehensively about, + then turned to her. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Al?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but with a sudden impulse came close to him and stood + motionless. She was a slender, dark-eyed woman, in whose face was stamped + the strain and stress of living. But the fine lines and the haunted look + in the eyes were not the handiwork of mere worry. He knew whose handiwork + it was as he looked upon it, and she knew when she consulted her mirror. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use, Mary,” he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “We've + tried everything. It's a wretched business, I know, but what else can we + do? You've failed. Doctor Bodineau's all that's left.” + </p> + <p> + “If I had another chance...” she began falteringly. + </p> + <p> + “We've threshed that all out,” he answered harshly. “You've got to buck + up, now. You know what conclusion we arrived at. You know you haven't the + ghost of a hope in another chance.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “I know it. But it is terrible, the thought of his + going away to fight it out alone.” + </p> + <p> + “He won't be alone. There's Doctor Bodineau. And besides, it's a beautiful + place.” + </p> + <p> + She remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “It is the only thing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It is the only thing,” she repeated mechanically. + </p> + <p> + He looked at his watch. “Where's Al?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll send him.” + </p> + <p> + When the door had closed behind her, he walked over to the window and + looked out, drumming absently with his knuckles on the pane. + </p> + <p> + “Hello.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and responded to the greeting of the man who had just entered. + There was a perceptible drag to the man's feet as he walked across toward + the window and paused irresolutely halfway. + </p> + <p> + “I've changed my mind, George,” he announced hurriedly and nervously. “I'm + not going.” + </p> + <p> + He plucked at his sleeve, shuffled with his feet, dropped his eyes, and + with a strong effort raised them again to confront the other. + </p> + <p> + George regarded him silently, his nostrils distending and his lean fingers + unconsciously crooking like an eagle's talons about to clutch. + </p> + <p> + In line and feature, there was much of resemblance between the two men; + and yet, in the strongest resemblances there was a radical difference. + Theirs were the same black eyes, but those of the man at the window were + sharp and straight looking, while those of the man in the middle of the + room were cloudy and furtive. He could not face the other's gaze, and + continually and vainly struggled with himself to do so. The high cheek + bones with the hollows beneath were the same, yet the texture of the + hollows seemed different. The thin-lipped mouths were from the same mould, + but George's lips were firm and muscular, while Al's were soft and loose—the + lips of an ascetic turned voluptuary. There was also a sag at the corners. + His flesh hinted of grossness, especially so in the eagle-like aquiline + nose that must once have been like the other's, but that had lost the + austerity the other's still retained. + </p> + <p> + Al fought for steadiness in the middle of the floor. The silence bothered + him. He had a feeling that he was about to begin swaying back and forth. + He moistened his lips with his tongue. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to stay,” he said desperately. + </p> + <p> + He dropped his eyes and plucked again at his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “And you are only twenty-six years old,” George said at last. “You poor, + feeble old man.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be so sure of that,” Al retorted, with a flash of belligerence. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember when we swam that mile and a half across the channel?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what of it?” A sullen expression was creeping across Al's face. + </p> + <p> + “And do you remember when we boxed in the barn after school?” + </p> + <p> + “I could take all you gave me.” + </p> + <p> + “All I gave you!” George's voice rose momentarily to a higher pitch. “You + licked me four afternoons out of five. You were twice as strong as I—three + times as strong. And now I'd be afraid to land on you with a sofa cushion; + you'd crumple up like a last year's leaf. You'd die, you poor, miserable + old man.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't abuse me just because I've changed my mind,” the other + protested, the hint of a whine in his voice. + </p> + <p> + His wife entered, and he looked appealingly to her; but the man at the + window strode suddenly up to him and burst out— + </p> + <p> + “You don't know your own mind for two successive minutes! You haven't any + mind, you spineless, crawling worm!” + </p> + <p> + “You can't make me angry.” Al smiled with cunning, and glanced + triumphantly at his wife. “You can't make me angry,” he repeated, as + though the idea were thoroughly gratifying to him. “I know your game. It's + my stomach, I tell you. I can't help it. Before God, I can't! Isn't it my + stomach, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at George and spoke composedly, though she hid a trembling + hand in a fold of her skirt. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it time?” she asked softly. + </p> + <p> + Her husband turned upon her savagely. “I'm not going to go!” he cried. + “That's just what I've been telling... him. And I tell you again, all of + you, I'm not going. You can't bully me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Al, dear, you said—” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind what I said!” he broke out. “I've said something else right + now, and you've heard it, and that settles it.” + </p> + <p> + He walked across the room and threw himself with emphasis into a Morris + chair. But the other man was swiftly upon him. The talon-like fingers + gripped his shoulders, jerked him to his feet, and held him there. + </p> + <p> + “You've reached the limit, Al, and I want you to understand it. I've tried + to treat you like... like my brother, but hereafter I shall treat you like + the thing that you are. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + The anger in his voice was cold. The blaze in his eyes was cold. It was + vastly more effective than any outburst, and Al cringed under it and under + the clutching hand that was bruising his shoulder muscles. + </p> + <p> + “It is only because of me that you have this house, that you have the food + you eat. Your position? Any other man would have been shown the door a + year ago—two years ago. I have held you in it. Your salary has been + charity. It has been paid out of my pocket. Mary... her dresses... that + gown she has on is made over; she wears the discarded dresses of her + sisters, of my wife. Charity—do you understand? Your children—they + are wearing the discarded clothes of my children, of the children of my + neighbours who think the clothes went to some orphan asylum. And it is an + orphan asylum... or it soon will be.” + </p> + <p> + He emphasized each point with an unconscious tightening of his grip on the + shoulder. Al was squirming with the pain of it. The sweat was starting out + on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Now listen well to me,” his brother went on. “In three minutes you will + tell me that you are going with me. If you don't, Mary and the children + will be taken away from you—to-day. You needn't ever come to the + office. This house will be closed to you. And in six months I shall have + the pleasure of burying you. You have three minutes to make up your mind.” + </p> + <p> + Al made a strangling movement, and reached up with weak fingers to the + clutching hand. + </p> + <p> + “My heart... let me go... you'll be the death of me,” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + The hand thrust him down forcibly into the Morris chair and released him. + </p> + <p> + The clock on the mantle ticked loudly. George glanced at it, and at Mary. + She was leaning against the table, unable to conceal her trembling. He + became unpleasantly aware of the feeling of his brother's fingers on his + hand. Quite unconsciously he wiped the back of the hand upon his coat. The + clock ticked on in the silence. It seemed to George that the room + reverberated with his voice. He could hear himself still speaking. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go,” came from the Morris chair. + </p> + <p> + It was a weak and shaken voice, and it was a weak and shaken man that + pulled himself out of the Morris chair. He started toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” George demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Suit case,” came the response. “Mary'll send the trunk later. I'll be + back in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed after him. A moment later, struck with sudden suspicion, + George was opening the door. He glanced in. His brother stood at a + sideboard, in one hand a decanter, in the other hand, bottom up and to his + lips, a whisky glass. + </p> + <p> + Across the glass Al saw that he was observed. It threw him into a panic. + Hastily he tried to refill the glass and get it to his lips; but glass and + decanter were sent smashing to the floor. He snarled. It was like the + sound of a wild beast. But the grip on his shoulder subdued and frightened + him. He was being propelled toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “The suit case,” he gasped. “It's there in that room. Let me get it.” + </p> + <p> + “Where's the key?” his brother asked, when he had brought it. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't locked.” + </p> + <p> + The next moment the suit case was spread open, and George's hand was + searching the contents. From one side it brought out a bottle of whisky, + from the other side a flask. He snapped the case to. + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” he said. “If we miss one car, we miss that train.” + </p> + <p> + He went out into the hallway, leaving Al with his wife. It was like a + funeral, George thought, as he waited. + </p> + <p> + His brother's overcoat caught on the knob of the front door and delayed + its closing long enough for Mary's first sob to come to their ears. + George's lips were very thin and compressed as he went down the steps. In + one hand he carried the suit case. With the other hand he held his + brother's arm. + </p> + <p> + As they neared the corner, he heard the electric car a block away, and + urged his brother on. Al was breathing hard. His feet dragged and + shuffled, and he held back. + </p> + <p> + “A hell of a brother YOU are,” he panted. + </p> + <p> + For reply, he received a vicious jerk on his arm. It reminded him of his + childhood when he was hurried along by some angry grown-up. And like a + child, he had to be helped up the car step. He sank down on an outside + seat, panting, sweating, overcome by the exertion. He followed George's + eyes as the latter looked him up and down. + </p> + <p> + “A hell of a brother YOU are,” was George's comment when he had finished + the inspection. + </p> + <p> + Moisture welled into Al's eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It's my stomach,” he said with self-pity. + </p> + <p> + “I don't wonder,” was the retort. “Burnt out like the crater of a volcano. + Fervent heat isn't a circumstance.” + </p> + <p> + Thereafter they did not speak. When they arrived at the transfer point, + George came to himself with a start. He smiled. With fixed gaze that did + not see the houses that streamed across his field of vision, he had + himself been sunk deep in self-pity. He helped his brother from the car, + and looked up the intersecting street. The car they were to take was not + in sight. + </p> + <p> + Al's eyes chanced upon the corner grocery and saloon across the way. At + once he became restless. His hands passed beyond his control, and he + yearned hungrily across the street to the door that swung open even as he + looked and let in a happy pilgrim. And in that instant he saw the + white-jacketed bartender against an array of glittering glass. Quite + unconsciously he started to cross the street. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on.” George's hand was on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “I want some whisky,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “You've already had some.” + </p> + <p> + “That was hours ago. Go on, George, let me have some. It's the last day. + Don't shut off on me until we get there—God knows it will be soon + enough.” + </p> + <p> + George glanced desperately up the street. The car was in sight. + </p> + <p> + “There isn't time for a drink,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want a drink. I want a bottle.” Al's voice became wheedling. “Go + on, George. It's the last, the very last.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” The denial was as final as George's thin lips could make it. + </p> + <p> + Al glanced at the approaching car. He sat down suddenly on the curbstone. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” his brother asked, with momentary alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I want some whisky. It's my stomach.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on now, get up.” + </p> + <p> + George reached for him, but was anticipated, for his brother sprawled flat + on the pavement, oblivious to the dirt and to the curious glances of the + passers-by. The car was clanging its gong at the crossing, a block away. + </p> + <p> + “You'll miss it,” Al grinned from the pavement. “And it will be your + fault.” + </p> + <p> + George's fists clenched tightly. + </p> + <p> + “For two cents I'd give you a thrashing.” + </p> + <p> + “And miss the car,” was the triumphant comment from the pavement. + </p> + <p> + George looked at the car. It was halfway down the block. He looked at his + watch. He debated a second longer. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said. “I'll get it. But you get on that car. If you miss + it, I'll break the bottle over your head.” + </p> + <p> + He dashed across the street and into the saloon. The car came in and + stopped. There were no passengers to get off. Al dragged himself up the + steps and sat down. He smiled as the conductor rang the bell and the car + started. The swinging door of the saloon burst open. Clutching in his hand + the suit case and a pint bottle of whisky, George started in pursuit. The + conductor, his hand on the bell cord, waited to see if it would be + necessary to stop. It was not. George swung lightly aboard, sat down + beside his brother, and passed him the bottle. + </p> + <p> + “You might have got a quart,” Al said reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + He extracted the cork with a pocket corkscrew, and elevated the bottle. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sick... my stomach,” he explained in apologetic tones to the + passenger who sat next to him. + </p> + <p> + In the train they sat in the smoking-car. George felt that it was + imperative. Also, having successfully caught the train, his heart + softened. He felt more kindly toward his brother, and accused himself of + unnecessary harshness. He strove to atone by talking about their mother, + and sisters, and the little affairs and interests of the family. But Al + was morose, and devoted himself to the bottle. As the time passed, his + mouth hung looser and looser, while the rings under his eyes seemed to + puff out and all his facial muscles to relax. + </p> + <p> + “It's my stomach,” he said, once, when he finished the bottle and dropped + it under the seat; but the swift hardening of his brother's face did not + encourage further explanations. + </p> + <p> + The conveyance that met them at the station had all the dignity and + luxuriousness of a private carriage. George's eyes were keen for the ear + marks of the institution to which they were going, but his apprehensions + were allayed from moment to moment. As they entered the wide gateway and + rolled on through the spacious grounds, he felt sure that the + institutional side of the place would not jar upon his brother. It was + more like a summer hotel, or, better yet, a country club. And as they + swept on through the spring sunshine, the songs of birds in his ears, and + in his nostrils the breath of flowers, George sighed for a week of rest in + such a place, and before his eyes loomed the arid vista of summer in town + and at the office. There was not room in his income for his brother and + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Let us take a walk in the grounds,” he suggested, after they had met + Doctor Bodineau and inspected the quarters assigned to Al. “The carriage + leaves for the station in half an hour, and we'll just have time.” + </p> + <p> + “It's beautiful,” he remarked a moment later. Under his feet was the + velvet grass, the trees arched overhead, and he stood in mottled sunshine. + “I wish I could stay for a month.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll trade places with you,” Al said quickly. + </p> + <p> + George laughed it off, but he felt a sinking of the heart. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that oak!” he cried. “And that woodpecker! Isn't he a beauty!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like it here,” he heard his brother mutter. + </p> + <p> + George's lips tightened in preparation for the struggle, but he said— + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to send Mary and the children off to the mountains. She needs + it, and so do they. And when you're in shape, I'll send you right on to + join them. Then you can take your summer vacation before you come back to + the office.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to stay in this damned hole, for all you talk about it,” Al + announced abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes you are, and you're going to get your health and strength back again, + so that the look of you will put the colour in Mary's cheeks where it used + to be.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going back with you.” Al's voice was firm. “I'm going to take the + same train back. It's about time for that carriage, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't told you all my plans,” George tried to go on, but Al cut him + off. + </p> + <p> + “You might as well quit that. I don't want any of your soapy talking. You + treat me like a child. I'm not a child. My mind's made up, and I'll show + you how long it can stay made up. You needn't talk to me. I don't care a + rap for what you're going to say.” + </p> + <p> + A baleful light was in his eyes, and to his brother he seemed for all the + world like a cornered rat, desperate and ready to fight. As George looked + at him he remembered back to their childhood, and it came to him that at + last was aroused in Al the same old stubborn strain that had enabled him, + as a child, to stand against all force and persuasion. + </p> + <p> + George abandoned hope. He had lost. This creature was not human. The last + fine instinct of the human had fled. It was a brute, sluggish and stolid, + impossible to move—just the raw stuff of life, combative, + rebellious, and indomitable. And as he contemplated his brother he felt in + himself the rising up of a similar brute. He became suddenly aware that + his fingers were tensing and crooking like a thug's, and he knew the + desire to kill. And his reason, turned traitor at last, counselled that he + should kill, that it was the only thing left for him to do. + </p> + <p> + He was aroused by a servant calling to him through the trees that the + carriage was waiting. He answered. Then, looking straight before him, he + discovered his brother. He had forgotten it was his brother. It had been + only a thing the moment before. He began to talk, and as he talked the way + became clear to him. His reason had not turned traitor. The brute in him + had merely orientated his reason. + </p> + <p> + “You are no earthly good, Al,” he said. “You know that. You've made Mary's + life a hell. You are a curse to your children. And you have not made life + exactly a paradise for the rest of us.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no use your talking,” Al interjected. “I'm not going to stay + here.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I'm coming to,” George continued. “You don't have to stay + here.” (Al's face brightened, and he involuntarily made a movement, as + though about to start toward the carriage.) “On the other hand, it is not + necessary that you should return with me. There is another way.” + </p> + <p> + George's hand went to his hip pocket and appeared with a revolver. It lay + along his palm, the butt toward Al, and toward Al he extended it. At the + same time, with his head, he indicated the near-by thicket. + </p> + <p> + “You can't bluff me,” Al snarled. + </p> + <p> + “It is not a bluff, Al. Look at me. I mean it. And if you don't do it for + yourself, I shall have to do it for you.” + </p> + <p> + They faced each other, the proffered revolver still extended. Al debated + for a moment, then his eyes blazed. With a quick movement he seized the + revolver. + </p> + <p> + “My God! I'll do it,” he said. “I'll show you what I've got in me.” + </p> + <p> + George felt suddenly sick. He turned away. He did not see his brother + enter the thicket, but he heard the passage of his body through the leaves + and branches. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Al,” he called. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” came from the thicket. + </p> + <p> + George felt the sweat upon his forehead. He began mopping his face with + his handkerchief. He heard, as from a remote distance, the voice of the + servant again calling to him that the carriage was waiting. The woodpecker + dropped down through the mottled sunshine and lighted on the trunk of a + tree a dozen feet away. George felt that it was all a dream, and yet + through it all he felt supreme justification. It was the right thing to + do. It was the only thing. + </p> + <p> + His whole body gave a spasmodic start, as though the revolver had been + fired. It was the voice of Al, close at his back. + </p> + <p> + “Here's your gun,” Al said. “I'll stay.” + </p> + <p> + The servant appeared among the trees, approaching rapidly and calling + anxiously. George put the weapon in his pocket and caught both his + brother's hands in his own. + </p> + <p> + “God bless you, old man,” he murmured; “and”—with a final squeeze of + the hands—“good luck!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm coming,” he called to the servant, and turned and ran through the + trees toward the carriage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CHINAGO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The coral waxes, the palm grows, but man departs.” + —Tahitian proverb. +</pre> + <p> + Ah Cho did not understand French. He sat in the crowded court room, very + weary and bored, listening to the unceasing, explosive French that now one + official and now another uttered. It was just so much gabble to Ah Cho, + and he marvelled at the stupidity of the Frenchmen who took so long to + find out the murderer of Chung Ga, and who did not find him at all. The + five hundred coolies on the plantation knew that Ah San had done the + killing, and here was Ah San not even arrested. It was true that all the + coolies had agreed secretly not to testify against one another; but then, + it was so simple, the Frenchmen should have been able to discover that Ah + San was the man. They were very stupid, these Frenchmen. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho had done nothing of which to be afraid. He had had no hand in the + killing. It was true he had been present at it, and Schemmer, the overseer + on the plantation, had rushed into the barracks immediately afterward and + caught him there, along with four or five others; but what of that? Chung + Ga had been stabbed only twice. It stood to reason that five or six men + could not inflict two stab wounds. At the most, if a man had struck but + once, only two men could have done it. + </p> + <p> + So it was that Ah Cho reasoned, when he, along with his four companions, + had lied and blocked and obfuscated in their statements to the court + concerning what had taken place. They had heard the sounds of the killing, + and, like Schemmer, they had run to the spot. They had got there before + Schemmer—that was all. True, Schemmer had testified that, attracted + by the sound of quarrelling as he chanced to pass by, he had stood for at + least five minutes outside; that then, when he entered, he found the + prisoners already inside; and that they had not entered just before, + because he had been standing by the one door to the barracks. But what of + that? Ah Cho and his four fellow-prisoners had testified that Schemmer was + mistaken. In the end they would be let go. They were all confident of + that. Five men could not have their heads cut off for two stab wounds. + Besides, no foreign devil had seen the killing. But these Frenchmen were + so stupid. In China, as Ah Cho well knew, the magistrate would order all + of them to the torture and learn the truth. The truth was very easy to + learn under torture. But these Frenchmen did not torture—bigger + fools they! Therefore they would never find out who killed Chung Ga. + </p> + <p> + But Ah Cho did not understand everything. The English Company that owned + the plantation had imported into Tahiti, at great expense, the five + hundred coolies. The stockholders were clamouring for dividends, and the + Company had not yet paid any; wherefore the Company did not want its + costly contract labourers to start the practice of killing one another. + Also, there were the French, eager and willing to impose upon the Chinagos + the virtues and excellences of French law. There was nothing like setting + an example once in a while; and, besides, of what use was New Caledonia + except to send men to live out their days in misery and pain in payment of + the penalty for being frail and human? + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho did not understand all this. He sat in the court room and waited + for the baffled judgment that would set him and his comrades free to go + back to the plantation and work out the terms of their contracts. This + judgment would soon be rendered. Proceedings were drawing to a close. He + could see that. There was no more testifying, no more gabble of tongues. + The French devils were tired, too, and evidently waiting for the judgment. + And as he waited he remembered back in his life to the time when he had + signed the contract and set sail in the ship for Tahiti. Times had been + hard in his sea-coast village, and when he indentured himself to labour + for five years in the South Seas at fifty cents Mexican a day, he had + thought himself fortunate. There were men in his village who toiled a + whole year for ten dollars Mexican, and there were women who made nets all + the year round for five dollars, while in the houses of shopkeepers there + were maidservants who received four dollars for a year of service. And + here he was to receive fifty cents a day; for one day, only one day, he + was to receive that princely sum! What if the work were hard? At the end + of the five years he would return home—that was in the contract—and + he would never have to work again. He would be a rich man for life, with a + house of his own, a wife, and children growing up to venerate him. Yes, + and back of the house he would have a small garden, a place of meditation + and repose, with goldfish in a tiny lakelet, and wind bells tinkling in + the several trees, and there would be a high wall all around so that his + meditation and repose should be undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + Well, he had worked out three of those five years. He was already a + wealthy man (in his own country) through his earnings, and only two years + more intervened between the cotton plantation on Tahiti and the meditation + and repose that awaited him. But just now he was losing money because of + the unfortunate accident of being present at the killing of Chung Ga. He + had lain three weeks in prison, and for each day of those three weeks he + had lost fifty cents. But now judgment would soon be given, and he would + go back to work. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho was twenty-two years old. He was happy and good-natured, and it was + easy for him to smile. While his body was slim in the Asiatic way, his + face was rotund. It was round, like the moon, and it irradiated a gentle + complacence and a sweet kindliness of spirit that was unusual among his + countrymen. Nor did his looks belie him. He never caused trouble, never + took part in wrangling. He did not gamble. His soul was not harsh enough + for the soul that must belong to a gambler. He was content with little + things and simple pleasures. The hush and quiet in the cool of the day + after the blazing toil in the cotton field was to him an infinite + satisfaction. He could sit for hours gazing at a solitary flower and + philosophizing about the mysteries and riddles of being. A blue heron on a + tiny crescent of sandy beach, a silvery splatter of flying fish, or a + sunset of pearl and rose across the lagoon, could entrance him to all + forgetfulness of the procession of wearisome days and of the heavy lash of + Schemmer. + </p> + <p> + Schemmer, Karl Schemmer, was a brute, a brutish brute. But he earned his + salary. He got the last particle of strength out of the five hundred + slaves; for slaves they were until their term of years was up. Schemmer + worked hard to extract the strength from those five hundred sweating + bodies and to transmute it into bales of fluffy cotton ready for export. + His dominant, iron-clad, primeval brutishness was what enabled him to + effect the transmutation. Also, he was assisted by a thick leather belt, + three inches wide and a yard in length, with which he always rode and + which, on occasion, could come down on the naked back of a stooping coolie + with a report like a pistol-shot. These reports were frequent when + Schemmer rode down the furrowed field. + </p> + <p> + Once, at the beginning of the first year of contract labour, he had killed + a coolie with a single blow of his fist. He had not exactly crushed the + man's head like an egg-shell, but the blow had been sufficient to addle + what was inside, and, after being sick for a week, the man had died. But + the Chinese had not complained to the French devils that ruled over + Tahiti. It was their own look out. Schemmer was their problem. They must + avoid his wrath as they avoided the venom of the centipedes that lurked in + the grass or crept into the sleeping quarters on rainy nights. The + Chinagos—such they were called by the indolent, brown-skinned island + folk—saw to it that they did not displease Schemmer too greatly. + This was equivalent to rendering up to him a full measure of efficient + toil. That blow of Schemmer's fist had been worth thousands of dollars to + the Company, and no trouble ever came of it to Schemmer. + </p> + <p> + The French, with no instinct for colonization, futile in their childish + playgame of developing the resources of the island, were only too glad to + see the English Company succeed. What matter of Schemmer and his + redoubtable fist? The Chinago that died? Well, he was only a Chinago. + Besides, he died of sunstroke, as the doctor's certificate attested. True, + in all the history of Tahiti no one had ever died of sunstroke. But it was + that, precisely that, which made the death of this Chinago unique. The + doctor said as much in his report. He was very candid. Dividends must be + paid, or else one more failure would be added to the long history of + failure in Tahiti. + </p> + <p> + There was no understanding these white devils. Ah Cho pondered their + inscrutableness as he sat in the court room waiting the judgment. There + was no telling what went on at the back of their minds. He had seen a few + of the white devils. They were all alike—the officers and sailors on + the ship, the French officials, the several white men on the plantation, + including Schemmer. Their minds all moved in mysterious ways there was no + getting at. They grew angry without apparent cause, and their anger was + always dangerous. They were like wild beasts at such times. They worried + about little things, and on occasion could out-toil even a Chinago. They + were not temperate as Chinagos were temperate; they were gluttons, eating + prodigiously and drinking more prodigiously. A Chinago never knew when an + act would please them or arouse a storm of wrath. A Chinago could never + tell. What pleased one time, the very next time might provoke an outburst + of anger. There was a curtain behind the eyes of the white devils that + screened the backs of their minds from the Chinago's gaze. And then, on + top of it all, was that terrible efficiency of the white devils, that + ability to do things, to make things go, to work results, to bend to their + wills all creeping, crawling things, and the powers of the very elements + themselves. Yes, the white men were strange and wonderful, and they were + devils. Look at Schemmer. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho wondered why the judgment was so long in forming. Not a man on + trial had laid hand on Chung Ga. Ah San alone had killed him. Ah San had + done it, bending Chung Ga's head back with one hand by a grip of his + queue, and with the other hand, from behind, reaching over and driving the + knife into his body. Twice had he driven it in. There in the court room, + with closed eyes, Ah Cho saw the killing acted over again—the + squabble, the vile words bandied back and forth, the filth and insult + flung upon venerable ancestors, the curses laid upon unbegotten + generations, the leap of Ah San, the grip on the queue of Chung Ga, the + knife that sank twice into his flesh, the bursting open of the door, the + irruption of Schemmer, the dash for the door, the escape of Ah San, the + flying belt of Schemmer that drove the rest into the corner, and the + firing of the revolver as a signal that brought help to Schemmer. Ah Cho + shivered as he lived it over. One blow of the belt had bruised his cheek, + taking off some of the skin. Schemmer had pointed to the bruises when, on + the witness-stand, he had identified Ah Cho. It was only just now that the + marks had become no longer visible. That had been a blow. Half an inch + nearer the centre and it would have taken out his eye. Then Ah Cho forgot + the whole happening in a vision he caught of the garden of meditation and + repose that would be his when he returned to his own land. + </p> + <p> + He sat with impassive face, while the magistrate rendered the judgment. + Likewise were the faces of his four companions impassive. And they + remained impassive when the interpreter explained that the five of them + had been found guilty of the murder of Chung Ga, and that Ah Chow should + have his head cut off, Ah Cho serve twenty years in prison in New + Caledonia, Wong Li twelve years, and Ah Tong ten years. There was no use + in getting excited about it. Even Ah Chow remained expressionless as a + mummy, though it was his head that was to be cut off. The magistrate added + a few words, and the interpreter explained that Ah Chow's face having been + most severely bruised by Schemmer's strap had made his identification so + positive that, since one man must die, he might as well be that man. Also, + the fact that Ah Cho's face likewise had been severely bruised, + conclusively proving his presence at the murder and his undoubted + participation, had merited him the twenty years of penal servitude. And + down to the ten years of Ah Tong, the proportioned reason for each + sentence was explained. Let the Chinagos take the lesson to heart, the + Court said finally, for they must learn that the law would be fulfilled in + Tahiti though the heavens fell. + </p> + <p> + The five Chinagos were taken back to jail. They were not shocked nor + grieved. The sentences being unexpected was quite what they were + accustomed to in their dealings with the white devils. From them a Chinago + rarely expected more than the unexpected. The heavy punishment for a crime + they had not committed was no stranger than the countless strange things + that white devils did. In the weeks that followed, Ah Cho often + contemplated Ah Chow with mild curiosity. His head was to be cut off by + the guillotine that was being erected on the plantation. For him there + would be no declining years, no gardens of tranquillity. Ah Cho + philosophized and speculated about life and death. As for himself, he was + not perturbed. Twenty years were merely twenty years. By that much was his + garden removed from him—that was all. He was young, and the patience + of Asia was in his bones. He could wait those twenty years, and by that + time the heats of his blood would be assuaged and he would be better + fitted for that garden of calm delight. He thought of a name for it; he + would call it The Garden of the Morning Calm. He was made happy all day by + the thought, and he was inspired to devise a moral maxim on the virtue of + patience, which maxim proved a great comfort, especially to Wong Li and Ah + Tong. Ah Chow, however, did not care for the maxim. His head was to be + separated from his body in so short a time that he had no need for + patience to wait for that event. He smoked well, ate well, slept well, and + did not worry about the slow passage of time. + </p> + <p> + Cruchot was a gendarme. He had seen twenty years of service in the + colonies, from Nigeria and Senegal to the South Seas, and those twenty + years had not perceptibly brightened his dull mind. He was as slow-witted + and stupid as in his peasant days in the south of France. He knew + discipline and fear of authority, and from God down to the sergeant of + gendarmes the only difference to him was the measure of slavish obedience + which he rendered. In point of fact, the sergeant bulked bigger in his + mind than God, except on Sundays when God's mouthpieces had their say. God + was usually very remote, while the sergeant was ordinarily very close at + hand. + </p> + <p> + Cruchot it was who received the order from the Chief Justice to the jailer + commanding that functionary to deliver over to Cruchot the person of Ah + Chow. Now, it happened that the Chief Justice had given a dinner the night + before to the captain and officers of the French man-of-war. His hand was + shaking when he wrote out the order, and his eyes were aching so + dreadfully that he did not read over the order. It was only a Chinago's + life he was signing away, anyway. So he did not notice that he had omitted + the final letter in Ah Chow's name. The order read “Ah Cho,” and, when + Cruchot presented the order, the jailer turned over to him the person of + Ah Cho. Cruchot took that person beside him on the seat of a wagon, behind + two mules, and drove away. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho was glad to be out in the sunshine. He sat beside the gendarme and + beamed. He beamed more ardently than ever when he noted the mules headed + south toward Atimaono. Undoubtedly Schemmer had sent for him to be brought + back. Schemmer wanted him to work. Very well, he would work well. Schemmer + would never have cause to complain. It was a hot day. There had been a + stoppage of the trades. The mules sweated, Cruchot sweated, and Ah Cho + sweated. But it was Ah Cho that bore the heat with the least concern. He + had toiled three years under that sun on the plantation. He beamed and + beamed with such genial good nature that even Cruchot's heavy mind was + stirred to wonderment. + </p> + <p> + “You are very funny,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho nodded and beamed more ardently. Unlike the magistrate, Cruchot + spoke to him in the Kanaka tongue, and this, like all Chinagos and all + foreign devils, Ah Cho understood. + </p> + <p> + “You laugh too much,” Cruchot chided. “One's heart should be full of tears + on a day like this.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to get out of the jail.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” The gendarme shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Is it not enough?” was the retort. + </p> + <p> + “Then you are not glad to have your head cut off?” + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho looked at him in abrupt perplexity, and said— + </p> + <p> + “Why, I am going back to Atimaono to work on the plantation for Schemmer. + Are you not taking me to Atimaono?” + </p> + <p> + Cruchot stroked his long moustaches reflectively. “Well, well,” he said + finally, with a flick of the whip at the off mule, “so you don't know?” + </p> + <p> + “Know what?” Ah Cho was beginning to feel a vague alarm. “Won't Schemmer + let me work for him any more?” + </p> + <p> + “Not after to-day.” Cruchot laughed heartily. It was a good joke. “You + see, you won't be able to work after to-day. A man with his head off can't + work, eh?” He poked the Chinago in the ribs, and chuckled. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho maintained silence while the mules trotted a hot mile. Then he + spoke: “Is Schemmer going to cut off my head?” + </p> + <p> + Cruchot grinned as he nodded. + </p> + <p> + “It is a mistake,” said Ah Cho, gravely. “I am not the Chinago that is to + have his head cut off. I am Ah Cho. The honourable judge has determined + that I am to stop twenty years in New Caledonia.” + </p> + <p> + The gendarme laughed. It was a good joke, this funny Chinago trying to + cheat the guillotine. The mules trotted through a coconut grove and for + half a mile beside the sparkling sea before Ah Cho spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I am not Ah Chow. The honourable judge did not say that my + head was to go off.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be afraid,” said Cruchot, with the philanthropic intention of + making it easier for his prisoner. “It is not difficult to die that way.” + He snapped his fingers. “It is quick—like that. It is not like + hanging on the end of a rope and kicking and making faces for five + minutes. It is like killing a chicken with a hatchet. You cut its head + off, that is all. And it is the same with a man. Pouf!—it is over. + It doesn't hurt. You don't even think it hurts. You don't think. Your head + is gone, so you cannot think. It is very good. That is the way I want to + die—quick, ah, quick. You are lucky to die that way. You might get + the leprosy and fall to pieces slowly, a finger at a time, and now and + again a thumb, also the toes. I knew a man who was burned by hot water. It + took him two days to die. You could hear him yelling a kilometre away. But + you? Ah! so easy! Chck!—the knife cuts your neck like that. It is + finished. The knife may even tickle. Who can say? Nobody who died that way + ever came back to say.” + </p> + <p> + He considered this last an excruciating joke, and permitted himself to be + convulsed with laughter for half a minute. Part of his mirth was assumed, + but he considered it his humane duty to cheer up the Chinago. + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you I am Ah Cho,” the other persisted. “I don't want my head + cut off.” + </p> + <p> + Cruchot scowled. The Chinago was carrying the foolishness too far. + </p> + <p> + “I am not Ah Chow—” Ah Cho began. + </p> + <p> + “That will do,” the gendarme interrupted. He puffed up his cheeks and + strove to appear fierce. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I am not—” Ah Cho began again. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up!” bawled Cruchot. + </p> + <p> + After that they rode along in silence. It was twenty miles from Papeete to + Atimaono, and over half the distance was covered by the time the Chinago + again ventured into speech. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you in the court room, when the honourable judge sought after our + guilt,” he began. “Very good. And do you remember that Ah Chow, whose head + is to be cut off—do you remember that he—Ah Chow—was a + tall man? Look at me.” + </p> + <p> + He stood up suddenly, and Cruchot saw that he was a short man. And just as + suddenly Cruchot caught a glimpse of a memory picture of Ah Chow, and in + that picture Ah Chow was tall. To the gendarme all Chinagos looked alike. + One face was like another. But between tallness and shortness he could + differentiate, and he knew that he had the wrong man beside him on the + seat. He pulled up the mules abruptly, so that the pole shot ahead of + them, elevating their collars. + </p> + <p> + “You see, it was a mistake,” said Ah Cho, smiling pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + But Cruchot was thinking. Already he regretted that he had stopped the + wagon. He was unaware of the error of the Chief Justice, and he had no way + of working it out; but he did know that he had been given this Chinago to + take to Atimaono and that it was his duty to take him to Atimaono. What if + he was the wrong man and they cut his head off? It was only a Chinago when + all was said, and what was a Chinago, anyway? Besides, it might not be a + mistake. He did not know what went on in the minds of his superiors. They + knew their business best. Who was he to do their thinking for them? Once, + in the long ago, he had attempted to think for them, and the sergeant had + said: “Cruchot, you are a fool! The quicker you know that, the better you + will get on. You are not to think; you are to obey and leave thinking to + your betters.” He smarted under the recollection. Also, if he turned back + to Papeete, he would delay the execution at Atimaono, and if he were wrong + in turning back, he would get a reprimand from the sergeant who was + waiting for the prisoner. And, furthermore, he would get a reprimand at + Papeete as well. + </p> + <p> + He touched the mules with the whip and drove on. He looked at his watch. + He would be half an hour late as it was, and the sergeant was bound to be + angry. He put the mules into a faster trot. The more Ah Cho persisted in + explaining the mistake, the more stubborn Cruchot became. The knowledge + that he had the wrong man did not make his temper better. The knowledge + that it was through no mistake of his confirmed him in the belief that the + wrong he was doing was the right. And, rather than incur the displeasure + of the sergeant, he would willingly have assisted a dozen wrong Chinagos + to their doom. + </p> + <p> + As for Ah Cho, after the gendarme had struck him over the head with the + butt of the whip and commanded him in a loud voice to shut up, there + remained nothing for him to do but to shut up. The long ride continued in + silence. Ah Cho pondered the strange ways of the foreign devils. There was + no explaining them. What they were doing with him was of a piece with + everything they did. First they found guilty five innocent men, and next + they cut off the head of the man that even they, in their benighted + ignorance, had deemed meritorious of no more than twenty years' + imprisonment. And there was nothing he could do. He could only sit idly + and take what these lords of life measured out to him. Once, he got in a + panic, and the sweat upon his body turned cold; but he fought his way out + of it. He endeavoured to resign himself to his fate by remembering and + repeating certain passages from the “Yin Chih Wen” (“The Tract of the + Quiet Way”); but, instead, he kept seeing his dream-garden of meditation + and repose. This bothered him, until he abandoned himself to the dream and + sat in his garden listening to the tinkling of the windbells in the + several trees. And lo! sitting thus, in the dream, he was able to remember + and repeat the passages from “The Tract of the Quiet Way.” + </p> + <p> + So the time passed nicely until Atimaono was reached and the mules trotted + up to the foot of the scaffold, in the shade of which stood the impatient + sergeant. Ah Cho was hurried up the ladder of the scaffold. Beneath him on + one side he saw assembled all the coolies of the plantation. Schemmer had + decided that the event would be a good object-lesson, and so he called in + the coolies from the fields and compelled them to be present. As they + caught sight of Ah Cho they gabbled among themselves in low voices. They + saw the mistake; but they kept it to themselves. The inexplicable white + devils had doubtlessly changed their minds. Instead of taking the life of + one innocent man, they were taking the life of another innocent man. Ah + Chow or Ah Cho—what did it matter which? They could never understand + the white dogs any more than could the white dogs understand them. Ah Cho + was going to have his head cut off, but they, when their two remaining + years of servitude were up, were going back to China. + </p> + <p> + Schemmer had made the guillotine himself. He was a handy man, and though + he had never seen a guillotine, the French officials had explained the + principle to him. It was on his suggestion that they had ordered the + execution to take place at Atimaono instead of at Papeete. The scene of + the crime, Schemmer had argued, was the best possible place for the + punishment, and, in addition, it would have a salutary influence upon the + half-thousand Chinagos on the plantation. Schemmer had also volunteered to + act as executioner, and in that capacity he was now on the scaffold, + experimenting with the instrument he had made. A banana tree, of the size + and consistency of a man's neck, lay under the guillotine. Ah Cho watched + with fascinated eyes. The German, turning a small crank, hoisted the blade + to the top of the little derrick he had rigged. A jerk on a stout piece of + cord loosed the blade and it dropped with a flash, neatly severing the + banana trunk. + </p> + <p> + “How does it work?” The sergeant, coming out on top the scaffold, had + asked the question. + </p> + <p> + “Beautifully,” was Schemmer's exultant answer. “Let me show you.” + </p> + <p> + Again he turned the crank that hoisted the blade, jerked the cord, and + sent the blade crashing down on the soft tree. But this time it went no + more than two-thirds of the way through. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant scowled. “That will not serve,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Schemmer wiped the sweat from his forehead. “What it needs is more + weight,” he announced. Walking up to the edge of the scaffold, he called + his orders to the blacksmith for a twenty-five-pound piece of iron. As he + stooped over to attach the iron to the broad top of the blade, Ah Cho + glanced at the sergeant and saw his opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “The honourable judge said that Ah Chow was to have his head cut off,” he + began. + </p> + <p> + The sergeant nodded impatiently. He was thinking of the fifteen-mile ride + before him that afternoon, to the windward side of the island, and of + Berthe, the pretty half-caste daughter of Lafiere, the pearl-trader, who + was waiting for him at the end of it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am not Ah Chow. I am Ah Cho. The honourable jailer has made a + mistake. Ah Chow is a tall man, and you see I am short.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant looked at him hastily and saw the mistake. “Schemmer!” he + called, imperatively. “Come here.” + </p> + <p> + The German grunted, but remained bent over his task till the chunk of iron + was lashed to his satisfaction. “Is your Chinago ready?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Look at him,” was the answer. “Is he the Chinago?” + </p> + <p> + Schemmer was surprised. He swore tersely for a few seconds, and looked + regretfully across at the thing he had made with his own hands and which + he was eager to see work. “Look here,” he said finally, “we can't postpone + this affair. I've lost three hours' work already out of those five hundred + Chinagos. I can't afford to lose it all over again for the right man. + Let's put the performance through just the same. It is only a Chinago.” + </p> + <p> + The sergeant remembered the long ride before him, and the pearl-trader's + daughter, and debated with himself. + </p> + <p> + “They will blame it on Cruchot—if it is discovered,” the German + urged. “But there's little chance of its being discovered. Ah Chow won't + give it away, at any rate.” + </p> + <p> + “The blame won't lie with Cruchot, anyway,” the sergeant said. “It must + have been the jailer's mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let's go on with it. They can't blame us. Who can tell one Chinago + from another? We can say that we merely carried out instructions with the + Chinago that was turned over to us. Besides, I really can't take all those + coolies a second time away from their labour.” + </p> + <p> + They spoke in French, and Ah Cho, who did not understand a word of it, + nevertheless knew that they were determining his destiny. He knew, also, + that the decision rested with the sergeant, and he hung upon that + official's lips. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” announced the sergeant. “Go ahead with it. He is only a + Chinago.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to try it once more, just to make sure.” Schemmer moved the + banana trunk forward under the knife, which he had hoisted to the top of + the derrick. + </p> + <p> + Ah Cho tried to remember maxims from “The Tract of the Quiet Way.” “Live + in concord,” came to him; but it was not applicable. He was not going to + live. He was about to die. No, that would not do. “Forgive malice”—yes, + but there was no malice to forgive. Schemmer and the rest were doing this + thing without malice. It was to them merely a piece of work that had to be + done, just as clearing the jungle, ditching the water, and planting cotton + were pieces of work that had to be done. Schemmer jerked the cord, and Ah + Cho forgot “The Tract of the Quiet Way.” The knife shot down with a thud, + making a clean slice of the tree. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful!” exclaimed the sergeant, pausing in the act of lighting a + cigarette. “Beautiful, my friend.” + </p> + <p> + Schemmer was pleased at the praise. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Ah Chow,” he said, in the Tahitian tongue. + </p> + <p> + “But I am not Ah Chow—” Ah Cho began. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up!” was the answer. “If you open your mouth again, I'll break your + head.” + </p> + <p> + The overseer threatened him with a clenched fist, and he remained silent. + What was the good of protesting? Those foreign devils always had their + way. He allowed himself to be lashed to the vertical board that was the + size of his body. Schemmer drew the buckles tight—so tight that the + straps cut into his flesh and hurt. But he did not complain. The hurt + would not last long. He felt the board tilting over in the air toward the + horizontal, and closed his eyes. And in that moment he caught a last + glimpse of his garden of meditation and repose. It seemed to him that he + sat in the garden. A cool wind was blowing, and the bells in the several + trees were tinkling softly. Also, birds were making sleepy noises, and + from beyond the high wall came the subdued sound of village life. + </p> + <p> + Then he was aware that the board had come to rest, and from muscular + pressures and tensions he knew that he was lying on his back. He opened + his eyes. Straight above him he saw the suspended knife blazing in the + sunshine. He saw the weight which had been added, and noted that one of + Schemmer's knots had slipped. Then he heard the sergeant's voice in sharp + command. Ah Cho closed his eyes hastily. He did not want to see that knife + descend. But he felt it—for one great fleeting instant. And in that + instant he remembered Cruchot and what Cruchot had said. But Cruchot was + wrong. The knife did not tickle. That much he knew before he ceased to + know. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAKE WESTING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whatever you do, make westing! make westing! + —Sailing directions for Cape Horn. +</pre> + <p> + For seven weeks the Mary Rogers had been between 50 degrees south in the + Atlantic and 50 degrees south in the Pacific, which meant that for seven + weeks she had been struggling to round Cape Horn. For seven weeks she had + been either in dirt, or close to dirt, save once, and then, following upon + six days of excessive dirt, which she had ridden out under the shelter of + the redoubtable Terra del Fuego coast, she had almost gone ashore during a + heavy swell in the dead calm that had suddenly fallen. For seven weeks she + had wrestled with the Cape Horn graybeards, and in return been buffeted + and smashed by them. She was a wooden ship, and her ceaseless straining + had opened her seams, so that twice a day the watch took its turn at the + pumps. + </p> + <p> + The Mary Rogers was strained, the crew was strained, and big Dan Cullen, + master, was likewise strained. Perhaps he was strained most of all, for + upon him rested the responsibility of that titanic struggle. He slept most + of the time in his clothes, though he rarely slept. He haunted the deck at + night, a great, burly, robust ghost, black with the sunburn of thirty + years of sea and hairy as an orang-outang. He, in turn, was haunted by one + thought of action, a sailing direction for the Horn: Whatever you do, make + westing! make westing! It was an obsession. He thought of nothing else, + except, at times, to blaspheme God for sending such bitter weather. + </p> + <p> + Make westing! He hugged the Horn, and a dozen times lay hove to with the + iron Cape bearing east-by-north, or north-north-east, a score of miles + away. And each time the eternal west wind smote him back and he made + easting. He fought gale after gale, south to 64 degrees, inside the + antarctic drift-ice, and pledged his immortal soul to the Powers of + Darkness for a bit of westing, for a slant to take him around. And he made + easting. In despair, he had tried to make the passage through the Straits + of Le Maire. Halfway through, the wind hauled to the north'ard of + north-west, the glass dropped to 28.88, and he turned and ran before a + gale of cyclonic fury, missing, by a hair's-breadth, piling up the Mary + Rogers on the black-toothed rocks. Twice he had made west to the Diego + Ramirez Rocks, one of the times saved between two snow-squalls by sighting + the gravestones of ships a quarter of a mile dead ahead. + </p> + <p> + Blow! Captain Dan Cullen instanced all his thirty years at sea to prove + that never had it blown so before. The Mary Rogers was hove to at the time + he gave the evidence, and, to clinch it, inside half an hour the Mary + Rogers was hove down to the hatches. Her new maintopsail and brand new + spencer were blown away like tissue paper; and five sails, furled and fast + under double gaskets, were blown loose and stripped from the yards. And + before morning the Mary Rogers was hove down twice again, and holes were + knocked in her bulwarks to ease her decks from the weight of ocean that + pressed her down. + </p> + <p> + On an average of once a week Captain Dan Cullen caught glimpses of the + sun. Once, for ten minutes, the sun shone at midday, and ten minutes + afterward a new gale was piping up, both watches were shortening sail, and + all was buried in the obscurity of a driving snow-squall. For a fortnight, + once, Captain Dan Cullen was without a meridian or a chronometer sight. + Rarely did he know his position within half of a degree, except when in + sight of land; for sun and stars remained hidden behind the sky, and it + was so gloomy that even at the best the horizons were poor for accurate + observations. A gray gloom shrouded the world. The clouds were gray; the + great driving seas were leaden gray; the smoking crests were a gray + churning; even the occasional albatrosses were gray, while the + snow-flurries were not white, but gray, under the sombre pall of the + heavens. + </p> + <p> + Life on board the Mary Rogers was gray—gray and gloomy. The faces of + the sailors were blue-gray; they were afflicted with sea-cuts and + sea-boils, and suffered exquisitely. They were shadows of men. For seven + weeks, in the forecastle or on deck, they had not known what it was to be + dry. They had forgotten what it was to sleep out a watch, and all watches + it was, “All hands on deck!” They caught snatches of agonized sleep, and + they slept in their oilskins ready for the everlasting call. So weak and + worn were they that it took both watches to do the work of one. That was + why both watches were on deck so much of the time. And no shadow of a man + could shirk duty. Nothing less than a broken leg could enable a man to + knock off work; and there were two such, who had been mauled and pulped by + the seas that broke aboard. + </p> + <p> + One other man who was the shadow of a man was George Dorety. He was the + only passenger on board, a friend of the firm, and he had elected to make + the voyage for his health. But seven weeks of Cape Horn had not bettered + his health. He gasped and panted in his bunk through the long, heaving + nights; and when on deck he was so bundled up for warmth that he resembled + a peripatetic old-clothes shop. At midday, eating at the cabin table in a + gloom so deep that the swinging sea-lamps burned always, he looked as + blue-gray as the sickest, saddest man for'ard. Nor did gazing across the + table at Captain Dan Cullen have any cheering effect upon him. Captain + Cullen chewed and scowled and kept silent. The scowls were for God, and + with every chew he reiterated the sole thought of his existence, which was + make westing. He was a big, hairy brute, and the sight of him was not + stimulating to the other's appetite. He looked upon George Dorety as a + Jonah, and told him so, once each meal, savagely transferring the scowl + from God to the passenger and back again. + </p> + <p> + Nor did the mate prove a first aid to a languid appetite. Joshua Higgins + by name, a seaman by profession and pull, but a pot-wolloper by capacity, + he was a loose-jointed, sniffling creature, heartless and selfish and + cowardly, without a soul, in fear of his life of Dan Cullen, and a bully + over the sailors, who knew that behind the mate was Captain Cullen, the + law-giver and compeller, the driver and the destroyer, the incarnation of + a dozen bucko mates. In that wild weather at the southern end of the + earth, Joshua Higgins ceased washing. His grimy face usually robbed George + Dorety of what little appetite he managed to accumulate. Ordinarily this + lavatorial dereliction would have caught Captain Cullen's eye and + vocabulary, but in the present his mind was filled with making westing, to + the exclusion of all other things not contributory thereto. Whether the + mate's face was clean or dirty had no bearing upon westing. Later on, when + 50 degrees south in the Pacific had been reached, Joshua Higgins would + wash his face very abruptly. In the meantime, at the cabin table, where + gray twilight alternated with lamplight while the lamps were being filled, + George Dorety sat between the two men, one a tiger and the other a hyena, + and wondered why God had made them. The second mate, Matthew Turner, was a + true sailor and a man, but George Dorety did not have the solace of his + company, for he ate by himself, solitary, when they had finished. + </p> + <p> + On Saturday morning, July 24, George Dorety awoke to a feeling of life and + headlong movement. On deck he found the Mary Rogers running off before a + howling south-easter. Nothing was set but the lower topsails and the + foresail. It was all she could stand, yet she was making fourteen knots, + as Mr. Turner shouted in Dorety's ear when he came on deck. And it was all + westing. She was going around the Horn at last... if the wind held. Mr. + Turner looked happy. The end of the struggle was in sight. But Captain + Cullen did not look happy. He scowled at Dorety in passing. Captain Cullen + did not want God to know that he was pleased with that wind. He had a + conception of a malicious God, and believed in his secret soul that if God + knew it was a desirable wind, God would promptly efface it and send a + snorter from the west. So he walked softly before God, smothering his joy + down under scowls and muttered curses, and, so, fooling God, for God was + the only thing in the universe of which Dan Cullen was afraid. + </p> + <p> + All Saturday and Saturday night the Mary Rogers raced her westing. + Persistently she logged her fourteen knots, so that by Sunday morning she + had covered three hundred and fifty miles. If the wind held, she would + make around. If it failed, and the snorter came from anywhere between + south-west and north, back the Mary Rogers would be hurled and be no + better off than she had been seven weeks before. And on Sunday morning the + wind was failing. The big sea was going down and running smooth. Both + watches were on deck setting sail after sail as fast as the ship could + stand it. And now Captain Cullen went around brazenly before God, smoking + a big cigar, smiling jubilantly, as if the failing wind delighted him, + while down underneath he was raging against God for taking the life out of + the blessed wind. Make westing! So he would, if God would only leave him + alone. Secretly, he pledged himself anew to the Powers of Darkness, if + they would let him make westing. He pledged himself so easily because he + did not believe in the Powers of Darkness. He really believed only in God, + though he did not know it. And in his inverted theology God was really the + Prince of Darkness. Captain Cullen was a devil-worshipper, but he called + the devil by another name, that was all. + </p> + <p> + At midday, after calling eight bells, Captain Cullen ordered the royals + on. The men went aloft faster than they had gone in weeks. Not alone were + they nimble because of the westing, but a benignant sun was shining down + and limbering their stiff bodies. George Dorety stood aft, near Captain + Cullen, less bundled in clothes than usual, soaking in the grateful warmth + as he watched the scene. Swiftly and abruptly the incident occurred. There + was a cry from the foreroyal-yard of “Man overboard!” Somebody threw a + life-buoy over the side, and at the same instant the second mate's voice + came aft, ringing and peremptory— + </p> + <p> + “Hard down your helm!” + </p> + <p> + The man at the wheel never moved a spoke. He knew better, for Captain Dan + Cullen was standing alongside of him. He wanted to move a spoke, to move + all the spokes, to grind the wheel down, hard down, for his comrade + drowning in the sea. He glanced at Captain Dan Cullen, and Captain Dan + Cullen gave no sign. + </p> + <p> + “Down! Hard down!” the second mate roared, as he sprang aft. + </p> + <p> + But he ceased springing and commanding, and stood still, when he saw Dan + Cullen by the wheel. And big Dan Cullen puffed at his cigar and said + nothing. Astern, and going astern fast, could be seen the sailor. He had + caught the life-buoy and was clinging to it. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. + The men aloft clung to the royal yards and watched with terror-stricken + faces. And the Mary Rogers raced on, making her westing. A long, silent + minute passed. + </p> + <p> + “Who was it?” Captain Cullen demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Mops, sir,” eagerly answered the sailor at the wheel. + </p> + <p> + Mops topped a wave astern and disappeared temporarily in the trough. It + was a large wave, but it was no graybeard. A small boat could live easily + in such a sea, and in such a sea the Mary Rogers could easily come to. But + she could not come to and make westing at the same time. + </p> + <p> + For the first time in all his years, George Dorety was seeing a real drama + of life and death—a sordid little drama in which the scales balanced + an unknown sailor named Mops against a few miles of longitude. At first he + had watched the man astern, but now he watched big Dan Cullen, hairy and + black, vested with power of life and death, smoking a cigar. + </p> + <p> + Captain Dan Cullen smoked another long, silent minute. Then he removed the + cigar from his mouth. He glanced aloft at the spars of the Mary Rogers, + and overside at the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Sheet home the royals!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + Fifteen minutes later they sat at table, in the cabin, with food served + before them. On one side of George Dorety sat Dan Cullen, the tiger, on + the other side, Joshua Higgins, the hyena. Nobody spoke. On deck the men + were sheeting home the skysails. George Dorety could hear their cries, + while a persistent vision haunted him of a man called Mops, alive and + well, clinging to a life-buoy miles astern in that lonely ocean. He + glanced at Captain Cullen, and experienced a feeling of nausea, for the + man was eating his food with relish, almost bolting it. + </p> + <p> + “Captain Cullen,” Dorety said, “you are in command of this ship, and it is + not proper for me to comment now upon what you do. But I wish to say one + thing. There is a hereafter, and yours will be a hot one.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Cullen did not even scowl. In his voice was regret as he said— + </p> + <p> + “It was blowing a living gale. It was impossible to save the man.” + </p> + <p> + “He fell from the royal-yard,” Dorety cried hotly. “You were setting the + royals at the time. Fifteen minutes afterward you were setting the + skysails.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a living gale, wasn't it, Mr. Higgins?” Captain Cullen said, + turning to the mate. + </p> + <p> + “If you'd brought her to, it'd have taken the sticks out of her,” was the + mate's answer. “You did the proper thing, Captain Cullen. The man hadn't a + ghost of a show.” + </p> + <p> + George Dorety made no answer, and to the meal's end no one spoke. After + that, Dorety had his meals served in his state-room. Captain Cullen + scowled at him no longer, though no speech was exchanged between them, + while the Mary Rogers sped north toward warmer latitudes. At the end of + the week, Dan Cullen cornered Dorety on deck. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do when we get to 'Frisco?” he demanded bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to swear out a warrant for your arrest,” Dorety answered + quietly. “I am going to charge you with murder, and I am going to see you + hanged for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You're almighty sure of yourself,” Captain Cullen sneered, turning on his + heel. + </p> + <p> + A second week passed, and one morning found George Dorety standing in the + coach-house companionway at the for'ard end of the long poop, taking his + first gaze around the deck. The Mary Rogers was reaching full-and-by, in a + stiff breeze. Every sail was set and drawing, including the staysails. + Captain Cullen strolled for'ard along the poop. He strolled carelessly, + glancing at the passenger out of the corner of his eye. Dorety was looking + the other way, standing with head and shoulders outside the companionway, + and only the back of his head was to be seen. Captain Cullen, with swift + eye, embraced the mainstaysail-block and the head and estimated the + distance. He glanced about him. Nobody was looking. Aft, Joshua Higgins, + pacing up and down, had just turned his back and was going the other way. + Captain Cullen bent over suddenly and cast the staysail-sheet off from its + pin. The heavy block hurtled through the air, smashing Dorety's head like + an egg-shell and hurtling on and back and forth as the staysail whipped + and slatted in the wind. Joshua Higgins turned around to see what had + carried away, and met the full blast of the vilest portion of Captain + Cullen's profanity. + </p> + <p> + “I made the sheet fast myself,” whimpered the mate in the first lull, + “with an extra turn to make sure. I remember it distinctly.” + </p> + <p> + “Made fast?” the Captain snarled back, for the benefit of the watch as it + struggled to capture the flying sail before it tore to ribbons. “You + couldn't make your grandmother fast, you useless hell's scullion. If you + made that sheet fast with an extra turn, why in hell didn't it stay fast? + That's what I want to know. Why in hell didn't it stay fast?” + </p> + <p> + The mate whined inarticulately. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shut up!” was the final word of Captain Cullen. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later he was as surprised as any when the body of George + Dorety was found inside the companionway on the floor. In the afternoon, + alone in his room, he doctored up the log. + </p> + <p> + “Ordinary seaman, Karl Brun,” he wrote, “lost overboard from + foreroyal-yard in a gale of wind. Was running at the time, and for the + safety of the ship did not dare come up to the wind. Nor could a boat have + lived in the sea that was running.” + </p> + <p> + On another page, he wrote + </p> + <p> + “Had often warned Mr. Dorety about the danger he ran because of his + carelessness on deck. I told him, once, that some day he would get his + head knocked off by a block. A carelessly fastened mainstaysail sheet was + the cause of the accident, which was deeply to be regretted because Mr. + Dorety was a favourite with all of us.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Dan Cullen read over his literary effort with admiration, blotted + the page, and closed the log. He lighted a cigar and stared before him. He + felt the Mary Rogers lift, and heel, and surge along, and knew that she + was making nine knots. A smile of satisfaction slowly dawned on his black + and hairy face. Well, anyway, he had made his westing and fooled God. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEMPER IDEM + </h2> + <p> + Doctor Bicknell was in a remarkably gracious mood. Through a minor + accident, a slight bit of carelessness, that was all, a man who might have + pulled through had died the preceding night. Though it had been only a + sailorman, one of the innumerable unwashed, the steward of the receiving + hospital had been on the anxious seat all the morning. It was not that the + man had died that gave him discomfort, he knew the Doctor too well for + that, but his distress lay in the fact that the operation had been done so + well. One of the most delicate in surgery, it had been as successful as it + was clever and audacious. All had then depended upon the treatment, the + nurses, the steward. And the man had died. Nothing much, a bit of + carelessness, yet enough to bring the professional wrath of Doctor + Bicknell about his ears and to perturb the working of the staff and nurses + for twenty-four hours to come. + </p> + <p> + But, as already stated, the Doctor was in a remarkably gracious mood. When + informed by the steward, in fear and trembling, of the man's unexpected + take-off, his lips did not so much as form one syllable of censure; nay, + they were so pursed that snatches of rag-time floated softly from them, to + be broken only by a pleasant query after the health of the other's + eldest-born. The steward, deeming it impossible that he could have caught + the gist of the case, repeated it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” Doctor Bicknell said impatiently; “I understand. But how about + Semper Idem? Is he ready to leave?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They're helping him dress now,” the steward answered, passing on to + the round of his duties, content that peace still reigned within the + iodine-saturated walls. + </p> + <p> + It was Semper Idem's recovery which had so fully compensated Doctor + Bicknell for the loss of the sailorman. Lives were to him as nothing, the + unpleasant but inevitable incidents of the profession, but cases, ah, + cases were everything. People who knew him were prone to brand him a + butcher, but his colleagues were at one in the belief that a bolder and + yet a more capable man never stood over the table. He was not an + imaginative man. He did not possess, and hence had no tolerance for, + emotion. His nature was accurate, precise, scientific. Men were to him no + more than pawns, without individuality or personal value. But as cases it + was different. The more broken a man was, the more precarious his grip on + life, the greater his significance in the eyes of Doctor Bicknell. He + would as readily forsake a poet laureate suffering from a common accident + for a nameless, mangled vagrant who defied every law of life by refusing + to die, as would a child forsake a Punch and Judy for a circus. + </p> + <p> + So it had been in the case of Semper Idem. The mystery of the man had not + appealed to him, nor had his silence and the veiled romance which the + yellow reporters had so sensationally and so fruitlessly exploited in + divers Sunday editions. But Semper Idem's throat had been cut. That was + the point. That was where his interest had centred. Cut from ear to ear, + and not one surgeon in a thousand to give a snap of the fingers for his + chance of recovery. But, thanks to the swift municipal ambulance service + and to Doctor Bicknell, he had been dragged back into the world he had + sought to leave. The Doctor's co-workers had shaken their heads when the + case was brought in. Impossible, they said. Throat, windpipe, jugular, all + but actually severed, and the loss of blood frightful. As it was such a + foregone conclusion, Doctor Bicknell had employed methods and done things + which made them, even in their professional capacities, shudder. And lo! + the man had recovered. + </p> + <p> + So, on this morning that Semper Idem was to leave the hospital, hale and + hearty, Doctor Bicknell's geniality was in nowise disturbed by the + steward's report, and he proceeded cheerfully to bring order out of the + chaos of a child's body which had been ground and crunched beneath the + wheels of an electric car. + </p> + <p> + As many will remember, the case of Semper Idem aroused a vast deal of + unseemly yet highly natural curiosity. He had been found in a slum + lodging, with throat cut as aforementioned, and blood dripping down upon + the inmates of the room below and disturbing their festivities. He had + evidently done the deed standing, with head bowed forward that he might + gaze his last upon a photograph which stood on the table propped against a + candlestick. It was this attitude which had made it possible for Doctor + Bicknell to save him. So terrific had been the sweep of the razor that had + he had his head thrown back, as he should have done to have accomplished + the act properly, with his neck stretched and the elastic vascular walls + distended, he would have of a certainty well-nigh decapitated himself. + </p> + <p> + At the hospital, during all the time he travelled the repugnant road back + to life, not a word had left his lips. Nor could anything be learned of + him by the sleuths detailed by the chief of police. Nobody knew him, nor + had ever seen or heard of him before. He was strictly, uniquely, of the + present. His clothes and surroundings were those of the lowest labourer, + his hands the hands of a gentleman. But not a shred of writing was + discovered, nothing, save in one particular, which would serve to indicate + his past or his position in life. + </p> + <p> + And that one particular was the photograph. If it were at all a likeness, + the woman who gazed frankly out upon the onlooker from the card-mount must + have been a striking creature indeed. It was an amateur production, for + the detectives were baffled in that no professional photographer's + signature or studio was appended. Across a corner of the mount, in + delicate feminine tracery, was written: “Semper idem; semper fidelis.” And + she looked it. As many recollect, it was a face one could never forget. + Clever half-tones, remarkably like, were published in all the leading + papers at the time; but such procedure gave rise to nothing but the + uncontrollable public curiosity and interminable copy to the + space-writers. + </p> + <p> + For want of a better name, the rescued suicide was known to the hospital + attendants, and to the world, as Semper Idem. And Semper Idem he remained. + Reporters, detectives, and nurses gave him up in despair. Not one word + could he be persuaded to utter; yet the flitting conscious light of his + eyes showed that his ears heard and his brain grasped every question put + to him. + </p> + <p> + But this mystery and romance played no part in Doctor Bicknell's interest + when he paused in the office to have a parting word with his patient. He, + the Doctor, had performed a prodigy in the matter of this man, done what + was virtually unprecedented in the annals of surgery. He did not care who + or what the man was, and it was highly improbable that he should ever see + him again; but, like the artist gazing upon a finished creation, he wished + to look for the last time upon the work of his hand and brain. + </p> + <p> + Semper Idem still remained mute. He seemed anxious to be gone. Not a word + could the Doctor extract from him, and little the Doctor cared. He + examined the throat of the convalescent carefully, idling over the hideous + scar with the lingering, half-caressing fondness of a parent. It was not a + particularly pleasing sight. An angry line circled the throat—for + all the world as though the man had just escaped the hangman's noose—and, + disappearing below the ear on either side, had the appearance of + completing the fiery periphery at the nape of the neck. + </p> + <p> + Maintaining his dogged silence, yielding to the other's examination in + much the manner of a leashed lion, Semper Idem betrayed only his desire to + drop from out of the public eye. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll not keep you,” Doctor Bicknell finally said, laying a hand on + the man's shoulder and stealing a last glance at his own handiwork. “But + let me give you a bit of advice. Next time you try it on, hold your chin + up, so. Don't snuggle it down and butcher yourself like a cow. Neatness + and despatch, you know. Neatness and despatch.” + </p> + <p> + Semper Idem's eyes flashed in token that he heard, and a moment later the + hospital door swung to on his heel. + </p> + <p> + It was a busy day for Doctor Bicknell, and the afternoon was well along + when he lighted a cigar preparatory to leaving the table upon which it + seemed the sufferers almost clamoured to be laid. But the last one, an old + rag-picker with a broken shoulder-blade, had been disposed of, and the + first fragrant smoke wreaths had begun to curl about his head, when the + gong of a hurrying ambulance came through the open window from the street, + followed by the inevitable entry of the stretcher with its ghastly + freight. + </p> + <p> + “Lay it on the table,” the Doctor directed, turning for a moment to place + his cigar in safety. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Suicide—throat cut,” responded one of the stretcher bearers. “Down + on Morgan Alley. Little hope, I think, sir. He's 'most gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Well, I'll give him a look, anyway.” He leaned over the man at the + moment when the quick made its last faint flutter and succumbed. + </p> + <p> + “It's Semper Idem come back again,” the steward said. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” replied Doctor Bicknell, “and gone again. No bungling this time. + Properly done, upon my life, sir, properly done. Took my advice to the + letter. I'm not required here. Take it along to the morgue.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Bicknell secured his cigar and relighted it. “That,” he said + between the puffs, looking at the steward, “that evens up for the one you + lost last night. We're quits now.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A NOSE FOR THE KING + </h2> + <p> + In the morning calm of Korea, when its peace and tranquillity truly + merited its ancient name, “Cho-sen,” there lived a politician by name Yi + Chin Ho. He was a man of parts, and—who shall say?—perhaps in + no wise worse than politicians the world over. But, unlike his brethren in + other lands, Yi Chin Ho was in jail. Not that he had inadvertently + diverted to himself public moneys, but that he had inadvertently diverted + too much. Excess is to be deplored in all things, even in grafting, and Yi + Chin Ho's excess had brought him to most deplorable straits. + </p> + <p> + Ten thousand strings of cash he owed the Government, and he lay in prison + under sentence of death. There was one advantage to the situation—he + had plenty of time in which to think. And he thought well. Then called he + the jailer to him. + </p> + <p> + “Most worthy man, you see before you one most wretched,” he began. “Yet + all will be well with me if you will but let me go free for one short hour + this night. And all will be well with you, for I shall see to your + advancement through the years, and you shall come at length to the + directorship of all the prisons of Cho-sen.” + </p> + <p> + “How now?” demanded the jailer. “What foolishness is this? One short hour, + and you but waiting for your head to be chopped off! And I, with an aged + and much-to-be-respected mother, not to say anything of a wife and several + children of tender years! Out upon you for the scoundrel that you are!” + </p> + <p> + “From the Sacred City to the ends of all the Eight Coasts there is no + place for me to hide,” Yi Chin Ho made reply. “I am a man of wisdom, but + of what worth my wisdom here in prison? Were I free, well I know I could + seek out and obtain the money wherewith to repay the Government. I know of + a nose that will save me from all my difficulties.” + </p> + <p> + “A nose!” cried the jailer. + </p> + <p> + “A nose,” said Yi Chin Ho. “A remarkable nose, if I may say so, a most + remarkable nose.” + </p> + <p> + The jailer threw up his hands despairingly. “Ah, what a wag you are, what + a wag,” he laughed. “To think that that very admirable wit of yours must + go the way of the chopping-block!” + </p> + <p> + And so saying, he turned and went away. But in the end, being a man soft + of head and heart, when the night was well along he permitted Yi Chin Ho + to go. + </p> + <p> + Straight he went to the Governor, catching him alone and arousing him from + his sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Yi Chin Ho, or I'm no Governor!” cried the Governor. “What do you here + who should be in prison waiting on the chopping-block?” + </p> + <p> + “I pray Your Excellency to listen to me,” said Yi Chin Ho, squatting on + his hams by the bedside and lighting his pipe from the fire-box. “A dead + man is without value. It is true, I am as a dead man, without value to the + Government, to Your Excellency, or to myself. But if, so to say, Your + Excellency were to give me my freedom—” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” cried the Governor. “Beside, you are condemned to death.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Excellency well knows that if I can repay the ten thousand strings + of cash, the Government will pardon me,” Yi Chin Ho went on. “So, as I + say, if Your Excellency were to give me my freedom for a few days, being a + man of understanding, I should then repay the Government and be in + position to be of service to Your Excellency. I should be in position to + be of very great service to Your Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you a plan whereby you hope to obtain this money?” asked the + Governor. + </p> + <p> + “I have,” said Yi Chin Ho. + </p> + <p> + “Then come with it to me to-morrow night; I would now sleep,” said the + Governor, taking up his snore where it had been interrupted. + </p> + <p> + On the following night, having again obtained leave of absence from the + jailer, Yi Chin Ho presented himself at the Governor's bedside. + </p> + <p> + “Is it you, Yi Chin Ho?” asked the Governor. “And have you the plan?” + </p> + <p> + “It is I, Your Excellency,” answered Yi Chin Ho, “and the plan is here.” + </p> + <p> + “Speak,” commanded the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “The plan is here,” repeated Yi Chin Ho, “here in my hand.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor sat up and opened his eyes. Yi Chin Ho proffered in his hand + a sheet of paper. The Governor held it to the light. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but a nose,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “A bit pinched, so, and so, Your Excellency,” said Yi Chin Ho. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a bit pinched here and there, as you say,” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “Withal it is an exceeding corpulent nose, thus, and so, all in one place, + at the end,” proceeded Yi Chin Ho. “Your Excellency would seek far and + wide and many a day for that nose and find it not!” + </p> + <p> + “An unusual nose,” admitted the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “There is a wart upon it,” said Yi Chin Ho. + </p> + <p> + “A most unusual nose,” said the Governor. “Never have I seen the like. But + what do you with this nose, Yi Chin Ho?” + </p> + <p> + “I seek it whereby to repay the money to the Government,” said Yi Chin Ho. + “I seek it to be of service to Your Excellency, and I seek it to save my + own worthless head. Further, I seek Your Excellency's seal upon this + picture of the nose.” + </p> + <p> + And the Governor laughed and affixed the seal of State, and Yi Chin Ho + departed. For a month and a day he travelled the King's Road which leads + to the shore of the Eastern Sea; and there, one night, at the gate of the + largest mansion of a wealthy city he knocked loudly for admittance. + </p> + <p> + “None other than the master of the house will I see,” said he fiercely to + the frightened servants. “I travel upon the King's business.” + </p> + <p> + Straightway was he led to an inner room, where the master of the house was + roused from his sleep and brought blinking before him. + </p> + <p> + “You are Pak Chung Chang, head man of this city,” said Yi Chin Ho in tones + that were all-accusing. “I am upon the King's business.” + </p> + <p> + Pak Chung Chang trembled. Well he knew the King's business was ever a + terrible business. His knees smote together, and he near fell to the + floor. + </p> + <p> + “The hour is late,” he quavered. “Were it not well to—” + </p> + <p> + “The King's business never waits!” thundered Yi Chin Ho. “Come apart with + me, and swiftly. I have an affair of moment to discuss with you. + </p> + <p> + “It is the King's affair,” he added with even greater fierceness; so that + Pak Chung Chang's silver pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers and + clattered on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Know then,” said Yi Chin Ho, when they had gone apart, “that the King is + troubled with an affliction, a very terrible affliction. In that he failed + to cure, the Court physician has had nothing else than his head chopped + off. From all the Eight Provinces have the physicians come to wait upon + the King. Wise consultation have they held, and they have decided that for + a remedy for the King's affliction nothing else is required than a nose, a + certain kind of nose, a very peculiar certain kind of nose. + </p> + <p> + “Then by none other was I summoned than His Excellency the Prime Minister + himself. He put a paper into my hand. Upon this paper was the very + peculiar kind of nose drawn by the physicians of the Eight Provinces, with + the seal of State upon it. + </p> + <p> + “'Go,' said His Excellency the Prime Minister. 'Seek out this nose, for + the King's affliction is sore. And wheresoever you find this nose upon the + face of a man, strike it off forthright and bring it in all haste to the + Court, for the King must be cured. Go, and come not back until your search + is rewarded.' + </p> + <p> + “And so I departed upon my quest,” said Yi Chin Ho. “I have sought out the + remotest corners of the kingdom; I have travelled the Eight Highways, + searched the Eight Provinces, and sailed the seas of the Eight Coasts. And + here I am.” + </p> + <p> + With a great flourish he drew a paper from his girdle, unrolled it with + many snappings and cracklings, and thrust it before the face of Pak Chung + Chang. Upon the paper was the picture of the nose. + </p> + <p> + Pak Chung Chang stared upon it with bulging eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Never have I beheld such a nose,” he began. + </p> + <p> + “There is a wart upon it,” said Yi Chin Ho. + </p> + <p> + “Never have I beheld—” Pak Chung Chang began again. + </p> + <p> + “Bring your father before me,” Yi Chin Ho interrupted sternly. + </p> + <p> + “My ancient and very-much-to-be-respected ancestor sleeps,” said Pak Chung + Chang. + </p> + <p> + “Why dissemble?” demanded Yi Chin Ho. “You know it is your father's nose. + Bring him before me that I may strike it off and be gone. Hurry, lest I + make bad report of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy!” cried Pak Chung Chang, falling on his knees. “It is impossible! + It is impossible! You cannot strike off my father's nose. He cannot go + down without his nose to the grave. He will become a laughter and a + byword, and all my days and nights will be filled with woe. O reflect! + Report that you have seen no such nose in your travels. You, too, have a + father.” + </p> + <p> + Pak Chung Chang clasped Yi Chin Ho's knees and fell to weeping on his + sandals. + </p> + <p> + “My heart softens strangely at your tears,” said Yi Chin Ho. “I, too, know + filial piety and regard. But—” He hesitated, then added, as though + thinking aloud, “It is as much as my head is worth.” + </p> + <p> + “How much is your head worth?” asked Pak Chung Chang in a thin, small + voice. + </p> + <p> + “A not remarkable head,” said Yi Chin Ho. “An absurdly unremarkable head; + but, such is my great foolishness, I value it at nothing less than one + hundred thousand strings of cash.” + </p> + <p> + “So be it,” said Pak Chung Chang, rising to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “I shall need horses to carry the treasure,” said Yi Chin Ho, “and men to + guard it well as I journey through the mountains. There are robbers abroad + in the land.” + </p> + <p> + “There are robbers abroad in the land,” said Pak Chung Chang, sadly. “But + it shall be as you wish, so long as my ancient and + very-much-to-be-respected ancestor's nose abide in its appointed place.” + </p> + <p> + “Say nothing to any man of this occurrence,” said Yi Chin Ho, “else will + other and more loyal servants than I be sent to strike off your father's + nose.” + </p> + <p> + And so Yi Chin Ho departed on his way through the mountains, blithe of + heart and gay of song as he listened to the jingling bells of his + treasure-laden ponies. + </p> + <p> + There is little more to tell. Yi Chin Ho prospered through the years. By + his efforts the jailer attained at length to the directorship of all the + prisons of Cho-sen; the Governor ultimately betook himself to the Sacred + City to be Prime Minister to the King, while Yi Chin Ho became the King's + boon companion and sat at table with him to the end of a round, fat life. + But Pak Chung Chang fell into a melancholy, and ever after he shook his + head sadly, with tears in his eyes, whenever he regarded the expensive + nose of his ancient and very-much-to-be-respected ancestor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE “FRANCIS SPAIGHT” + </h2> + <h3> + (A TRUE TALE RETOLD) + </h3> + <p> + The Francis Spaight was running before it solely under a mizzentopsail, + when the thing happened. It was not due to carelessness so much as to the + lack of discipline of the crew and to the fact that they were indifferent + seamen at best. The man at the wheel in particular, a Limerick man, had + had no experience with salt water beyond that of rafting timber on the + Shannon between the Quebec vessels and the shore. He was afraid of the + huge seas that rose out of the murk astern and bore down upon him, and he + was more given to cowering away from their threatened impact than he was + to meeting their blows with the wheel and checking the ship's rush to + broach to. + </p> + <p> + It was three in the morning when his unseamanlike conduct precipitated the + catastrophe. At sight of a sea far larger than its fellows, he crouched + down, releasing his hands from the spokes. The Francis Spaight sheered as + her stern lifted on the sea, receiving the full fling of the cap on her + quarter. The next instant she was in the trough, her lee-rail buried till + the ocean was level with her hatch-coamings, sea after sea breaking over + her weather rail and sweeping what remained exposed of the deck with icy + deluges. + </p> + <p> + The men were out of hand, helpless and hopeless, stupid in their + bewilderment and fear, and resolute only in that they would not obey + orders. Some wailed, others clung silently in the weather shrouds, and + still others muttered prayers or shrieked vile imprecations; and neither + captain nor mate could get them to bear a hand at the pumps or at setting + patches of sails to bring the vessel up to the wind and sea. Inside the + hour the ship was over on her beam ends, the lubberly cowards climbing up + her side and hanging on in the rigging. When she went over, the mate was + caught and drowned in the after-cabin, as were two sailors who had sought + refuge in the forecastle. + </p> + <p> + The mate had been the ablest man on board, and the captain was now + scarcely less helpless than his men. Beyond cursing them for their + worthlessness, he did nothing; and it remained for a man named Mahoney, a + Belfast man, and a boy, O'Brien, of Limerick, to cut away the fore and + main masts. This they did at great risk on the perpendicular wall of the + wreck, sending the mizzentopmast overside along in the general crash. The + Francis Spaight righted, and it was well that she was lumber laden, else + she would have sunk, for she was already water-logged. The mainmast, still + fast by the shrouds, beat like a thunderous sledge-hammer against the + ship's side, every stroke bringing groans from the men. + </p> + <p> + Day dawned on the savage ocean, and in the cold gray light all that could + be seen of the Francis Spaight emerging from the sea were the poop, the + shattered mizzenmast, and a ragged line of bulwarks. It was midwinter in + the North Atlantic, and the wretched men were half-dead from cold. But + there was no place where they could find rest. Every sea breached clean + over the wreck, washing away the salt incrustations from their bodies and + depositing fresh incrustations. The cabin under the poop was awash to the + knees, but here at least was shelter from the chill wind, and here the + survivors congregated, standing upright, holding on by the cabin + furnishings, and leaning against one another for support. + </p> + <p> + In vain Mahoney strove to get the men to take turns in watching aloft from + the mizzenmast for any chance vessel. The icy gale was too much for them, + and they preferred the shelter of the cabin. O'Brien, the boy, who was + only fifteen, took turns with Mahoney on the freezing perch. It was the + boy, at three in the afternoon, who called down that he had sighted a + sail. This did bring them from the cabin, and they crowded the poop rail + and weather mizzen shrouds as they watched the strange ship. But its + course did not lie near, and when it disappeared below the skyline, they + returned shivering to the cabin, not one offering to relieve the watch at + the mast head. + </p> + <p> + By the end of the second day, Mahoney and O'Brien gave up their attempt, + and thereafter the vessel drifted in the gale uncared for and without a + lookout. There were thirteen alive, and for seventy-two hours they stood + knee-deep in the sloshing water on the cabin floor, half-frozen, without + food, and with but three bottles of wine shared among them. All food and + fresh water were below, and there was no getting at such supplies in the + water-logged condition of the wreck. As the days went by, no food whatever + passed their lips. Fresh water, in small quantities, they were able to + obtain by holding a cover of a tureen under the saddle of the mizzenmast. + But the rain fell infrequently, and they were hard put. When it rained, + they also soaked their handkerchiefs, squeezing them out into their mouths + or into their shoes. As the wind and sea went down, they were even able to + mop the exposed portions of the deck that were free from brine and so add + to their water supply. But food they had none, and no way of getting it, + though sea-birds flew repeatedly overhead. + </p> + <p> + In the calm weather that followed the gale, after having remained on their + feet for ninety-six hours, they were able to find dry planks in the cabin + on which to lie. But the long hours of standing in the salt water had + caused sores to form on their legs. These sores were extremely painful. + The slightest contact or scrape caused severe anguish, and in their weak + condition and crowded situation they were continually hurting one another + in this manner. Not a man could move about without being followed by + volleys of abuse, curses, and groans. So great was their misery that the + strong oppressed the weak, shoving them aside from the dry planks to shift + for themselves in the cold and wet. The boy, O'Brien, was specially + maltreated. Though there were three other boys, it was O'Brien who came in + for most of the abuse. There was no explaining it, except on the ground + that his was a stronger and more dominant spirit than those of the other + boys, and that he stood up more for his rights, resenting the petty + injustices that were meted out to all the boys by the men. Whenever + O'Brien came near the men in search of a dry place to sleep, or merely + moved about, he was kicked and cuffed away. In return, he cursed them for + their selfish brutishness, and blows and kicks and curses were rained upon + him. Miserable as were all of them, he was thus made far more miserable; + and it was only the flame of life, unusually strong in him, that enabled + him to endure. + </p> + <p> + As the days went by and they grew weaker, their peevishness and ill-temper + increased, which, in turn, increased the ill-treatment and sufferings of + O'Brien. By the sixteenth day all hands were far gone with hunger, and + they stood together in small groups, talking in undertones and + occasionally glancing at O'Brien. It was at high noon that the conference + came to a head. The captain was the spokesman. All were collected on the + poop. + </p> + <p> + “Men,” the captain began, “we have been a long time without food—two + weeks and two days it is, though it seems more like two years and two + months. We can't hang out much longer. It is beyond human nature to go on + hanging out with nothing in our stomachs. There is a serious question to + consider: whether it is better for all to die, or for one to die. We are + standing with our feet in our graves. If one of us dies, the rest may live + until a ship is sighted. What say you?” + </p> + <p> + Michael Behane, the man who had been at the wheel when the Francis Spaight + broached to, called out that it was well. The others joined in the cry. + </p> + <p> + “Let it be one of the b'ys!” cried Sullivan, a Tarbert man, glancing at + the same time significantly at O'Brien. + </p> + <p> + “It is my opinion,” the captain went on, “that it will be a good deed for + one of us to die for the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “A good deed! A good deed!” the men interjected. + </p> + <p> + “And it is my opinion that 'tis best for one of the boys to die. They have + no families to support, nor would they be considered so great a loss to + their friends as those who have wives and children.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tis right.” “Very right.” “Very fit it should be done,” the men muttered + one to another. + </p> + <p> + But the four boys cried out against the injustice of it. + </p> + <p> + “Our lives is just as dear to us as the rest iv yez,” O'Brien protested. + “An' our famblies, too. As for wives an' childer, who is there savin' + meself to care for me old mother that's a widow, as you know well, Michael + Behane, that comes from Limerick? 'Tis not fair. Let the lots be drawn + between all of us, men and b'ys.” + </p> + <p> + Mahoney was the only man who spoke in favour of the boys, declaring that + it was the fair thing for all to share alike. Sullivan and the captain + insisted on the drawing of lots being confined to the boys. There were + high words, in the midst of which Sullivan turned upon O'Brien, snarling— + </p> + <p> + “'Twould be a good deed to put you out of the way. You deserve it. 'Twould + be the right way to serve you, an' serve you we will.” + </p> + <p> + He started toward O'Brien, with intent to lay hands on him and proceed at + once with the killing, while several others likewise shuffled toward him + and reached for him. He stumbled backwards to escape them, at the same + time crying that he would submit to the drawing of the lots among the + boys. + </p> + <p> + The captain prepared four sticks of different lengths and handed them to + Sullivan. + </p> + <p> + “You're thinkin' the drawin'll not be fair,” the latter sneered to + O'Brien. “So it's yerself'll do the drawin'.” + </p> + <p> + To this O'Brien agreed. A handkerchief was tied over his eyes, + blindfolding him, and he knelt down on the deck with his back to Sullivan. + </p> + <p> + “Whoever you name for the shortest stick'll die,” the captain said. + </p> + <p> + Sullivan held up one of the sticks. The rest were concealed in his hand so + that no one could see whether it was the short stick or not. + </p> + <p> + “An' whose stick will it be?” Sullivan demanded. + </p> + <p> + “For little Johnny Sheehan,” O'Brien answered. + </p> + <p> + Sullivan laid the stick aside. Those who looked could not tell if it were + the fatal one. Sullivan held up another stick. + </p> + <p> + “Whose will it be?” + </p> + <p> + “For George Burns,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + The stick was laid with the first one, and a third held up. + </p> + <p> + “An' whose is this wan?” + </p> + <p> + “For myself,” said O'Brien. + </p> + <p> + With a quick movement, Sullivan threw the four sticks together. No one had + seen. + </p> + <p> + “'Tis for yourself ye've drawn it,” Sullivan announced. + </p> + <p> + “A good deed,” several of the men muttered. + </p> + <p> + O'Brien was very quiet. He arose to his feet, took the bandage off, and + looked around. + </p> + <p> + “Where is ut?” he demanded. “The short stick? The wan for me?” + </p> + <p> + The captain pointed to the four sticks lying on the deck. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know the stick was mine?” O'Brien questioned. “Did you see ut, + Johnny Sheehan?” + </p> + <p> + Johnny Sheehan, who was the youngest of the boys, did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see ut?” O'Brien next asked Mahoney. + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn't see ut.” + </p> + <p> + The men were muttering and growling. + </p> + <p> + “'Twas a fair drawin',” Sullivan said. “Ye had yer chanct an' ye lost, + that's all iv ut.” + </p> + <p> + “A fair drawin',” the captain added. “Didn't I behold it myself? The stick + was yours, O'Brien, an' ye may as well get ready. Where's the cook? + Gorman, come here. Fetch the tureen cover, some of ye. Gorman, do your + duty like a man.” + </p> + <p> + “But how'll I do it,” the cook demanded. He was a weak-eyed, weak-chinned, + indecisive man. + </p> + <p> + “'Tis a damned murder!” O'Brien cried out. + </p> + <p> + “I'll have none of ut,” Mahoney announced. “Not a bite shall pass me + lips.” + </p> + <p> + “Then 'tis yer share for better men than yerself,” Sullivan sneered. “Go + on with yer duty, cook.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tis not me duty, the killin' of b'ys,” Gorman protested irresolutely. + </p> + <p> + “If yez don't make mate for us, we'll be makin' mate of yerself,” Behane + threatened. “Somebody must die, an' as well you as another.” + </p> + <p> + Johnny Sheehan began to cry. O'Brien listened anxiously. His face was + pale. His lips trembled, and at times his whole body shook. + </p> + <p> + “I signed on as cook,” Gorman enounced. “An' cook I wud if galley there + was. But I'll not lay me hand to murder. 'Tis not in the articles. I'm the + cook—” + </p> + <p> + “An' cook ye'll be for wan minute more only,” Sullivan said grimly, at the + same moment gripping the cook's head from behind and bending it back till + the windpipe and jugular were stretched taut. “Where's yer knife, Mike? + Pass it along.” + </p> + <p> + At the touch of the steel, Gorman whimpered. + </p> + <p> + “I'll do ut, if yez'll hold the b'y.” + </p> + <p> + The pitiable condition of the cook seemed in some fashion to nerve up + O'Brien. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Gorman,” he said. “Go on with ut. 'Tis meself knows yer + not wantin' to do ut. It's all right, sir”—this to the captain, who + had laid a hand heavily on his arm. “Ye won't have to hold me, sir. I'll + stand still.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop yer blitherin', an' go an' get the tureen cover,” Behane commanded + Johnny Sheehan, at the same time dealing him a heavy cuff alongside the + head. + </p> + <p> + The boy, who was scarcely more than a child, fetched the cover. He crawled + and tottered along the deck, so weak was he from hunger. The tears still + ran down his cheeks. Behane took the cover from him, at the same time + administering another cuff. + </p> + <p> + O'Brien took off his coat and bared his right arm. His under lip still + trembled, but he held a tight grip on himself. The captain's penknife was + opened and passed to Gorman. + </p> + <p> + “Mahoney, tell me mother what happened to me, if ever ye get back,” + O'Brien requested. + </p> + <p> + Mahoney nodded. + </p> + <p> + “'Tis black murder, black an' damned,” he said. “The b'y's flesh'll do + none iv yez anny good. Mark me words. Ye'll not profit by it, none iv + yez.” + </p> + <p> + “Get ready,” the captain ordered. “You, Sullivan, hold the cover—that's + it—close up. Spill nothing. It's precious stuff.” + </p> + <p> + Gorman made an effort. The knife was dull. He was weak. Besides, his hand + was shaking so violently that he nearly dropped the knife. The three boys + were crouched apart, in a huddle, crying and sobbing. With the exception + of Mahoney, the men were gathered about the victim, craning their necks to + see. + </p> + <p> + “Be a man, Gorman,” the captain cautioned. + </p> + <p> + The wretched cook was seized with a spasm of resolution, sawing back and + forth with the blade on O'Brien's wrist. The veins were severed. Sullivan + held the tureen cover close underneath. The cut veins gaped wide, but no + ruddy flood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The veins were dry + and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silent figures swayed in unison with + each heave of the ship. Every eye was turned fixedly upon that + inconceivable and monstrous thing, the dry veins of a creature that was + alive. + </p> + <p> + “'Tis a warnin',” Mahoney cried. “Lave the b'y alone. Mark me words. His + death'll do none iv yez anny good.” + </p> + <p> + “Try at the elbow—the left elbow, 'tis nearer the heart,” the + captain said finally, in a dim and husky voice that was unlike his own. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the knife,” O'Brien said roughly, taking it out of the cook's + hand. “I can't be lookin' at ye puttin' me to hurt.” + </p> + <p> + Quite coolly he cut the vein at the left elbow, but, like the cook, he + failed to bring blood. + </p> + <p> + “This is all iv no use,” Sullivan said. “'Tis better to put him out iv his + misery by bleedin' him at the throat.” + </p> + <p> + The strain had been too much for the lad. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be doin' ut,” he cried. “There'll be no blood in me throat. Give me + a little time. 'Tis cold an' weak I am. Be lettin' me lay down an' slape a + bit. Then I'll be warm an' the blood'll flow.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tis no use,” Sullivan objected. “As if ye cud be slapin' at a time like + this. Ye'll not slape, and ye'll not warm up. Look at ye now. You've an + ague.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sick at Limerick wan night,” O'Brien hurried on, “an' the dochtor + cudn't bleed me. But after slapin' a few hours an' gettin' warm in bed the + blood came freely. It's God's truth I'm tellin' yez. Don't be murderin' + me!” + </p> + <p> + “His veins are open now,” the captain said. “'Tis no use leavin' him in + his pain. Do it now an' be done with it.” + </p> + <p> + They started to reach for O'Brien, but he backed away. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be the death iv yez!” he screamed. “Take yer hands off iv me, + Sullivan! I'll come back! I'll haunt yez! Wakin' or slapin', I'll haunt + yez till you die!” + </p> + <p> + “'Tis disgraceful!” yelled Behane. “If the short stick'd ben mine, I'd + a-let me mates cut the head off iv me an' died happy.” + </p> + <p> + Sullivan leaped in and caught the unhappy lad by the hair. The rest of the + men followed, O'Brien kicked and struggled, snarling and snapping at the + hands that clutched him from every side. Little Johnny Sheehan broke out + into wild screaming, but the men took no notice of him. O'Brien was bent + backward to the deck, the tureen cover under his neck. Gorman was shoved + forward. Some one had thrust a large sheath-knife into his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Do yer duty! Do yer duty!” the men cried. + </p> + <p> + The cook bent over, but he caught the boy's eyes and faltered. + </p> + <p> + “If ye don't, I'll kill ye with me own hands,” Behane shouted. + </p> + <p> + From every side a torrent of abuse and threats poured in upon the cook. + Still he hung back. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe there'll be more blood in his veins than O'Brien's,” Sullivan + suggested significantly. + </p> + <p> + Behane caught Gorman by the hair and twisted his head back, while Sullivan + attempted to take possession of the sheath-knife. But Gorman clung to it + desperately. + </p> + <p> + “Lave go, an' I'll do ut!” he screamed frantically. “Don't be cuttin' me + throat! I'll do the deed! I'll do the deed!” + </p> + <p> + “See that you do it, then,” the captain threatened him. + </p> + <p> + Gorman allowed himself to be shoved forward. He looked at the boy, closed + his eyes, and muttered a prayer. Then, without opening his eyes, he did + the deed that had been appointed him. O'Brien emitted a shriek that sank + swiftly to a gurgling sob. The men held him till his struggles ceased, + when he was laid upon the deck. They were eager and impatient, and with + oaths and threats they urged Gorman to hurry with the preparation of the + meal. + </p> + <p> + “Lave ut, you bloody butchers,” Mahoney said quietly. “Lave ut, I tell + yez. Ye'll not be needin' anny iv ut now. 'Tis as I said: ye'll not be + profitin' by the lad's blood. Empty ut overside, Behane. Empty ut + overside.” + </p> + <p> + Behane, still holding the tureen cover in both his hands, glanced to + windward. He walked to the rail and threw the cover and contents into the + sea. A full-rigged ship was bearing down upon them a short mile away. So + occupied had they been with the deed just committed, that none had had + eyes for a lookout. All hands watched her coming on—the brightly + coppered forefoot parting the water like a golden knife, the headsails + flapping lazily and emptily at each downward surge, and the towering + canvas tiers dipping and curtsying with each stately swing of the sea. No + man spoke. + </p> + <p> + As she hove to, a cable length away, the captain of the Francis Spaight + bestirred himself and ordered a tarpaulin to be thrown over O'Brien's + corpse. A boat was lowered from the stranger's side and began to pull + toward them. John Gorman laughed. He laughed softly at first, but he + accompanied each stroke of the oars with spasmodically increasing glee. It + was this maniacal laughter that greeted the rescue boat as it hauled + alongside and the first officer clambered on board. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CURIOUS FRAGMENT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [The capitalist, or industrial oligarch, Roger Vanderwater, + mentioned in the narrative, has been identified as the ninth + in the line of the Vanderwaters that controlled for hundreds + of years the cotton factories of the South. This Roger + Vanderwater flourished in the last decades of the twenty- + sixth century after Christ, which was the fifth century of + the terrible industrial oligarchy that was reared upon the + ruins of the early Republic. + + From internal evidences we are convinced that the narrative + which follows was not reduced to writing till the twenty- + ninth century. Not only was it unlawful to write or print + such matter during that period, but the working-class was so + illiterate that only in rare instances were its members able + to read and write. This was the dark reign of the overman, + in whose speech the great mass of the people were + characterized as the “herd animals.” All literacy was + frowned upon and stamped out. From the statute-books of the + times may be instanced that black law that made it a capital + offence for any man, no matter of what class, to teach even + the alphabet to a member of the working-class. Such + stringent limitation of education to the ruling class was + necessary if that class was to continue to rule. + + One result of the foregoing was the development of the + professional story-tellers. These story-tellers were paid by + the oligarchy, and the tales they told were legendary, + mythical, romantic, and harmless. But the spirit of freedom + never quite died out, and agitators, under the guise of + story-tellers, preached revolt to the slave class. That the + following tale was banned by the oligarchs we have proof + from the records of the criminal police court of Ashbury, + wherein, on January 27, 2734, one John Tourney, found guilty + of telling the tale in a boozing-ken of labourers, was + sentenced to five years' penal servitude in the borax mines + of the Arizona Desert.—EDITOR'S NOTE.] +</pre> + <p> + Listen, my brothers, and I will tell you a tale of an arm. It was the arm + of Tom Dixon, and Tom Dixon was a weaver of the first class in a factory + of that hell-hound and master, Roger Vanderwater. This factory was called + “Hell's Bottom”... by the slaves who toiled in it, and I guess they ought + to know; and it was situated in Kingsbury, at the other end of the town + from Vanderwater's summer palace. You do not know where Kingsbury is? + There are many things, my brothers, that you do not know, and it is sad. + It is because you do not know that you are slaves. When I have told you + this tale, I should like to form a class among you for the learning of + written and printed speech. Our masters read and write and possess many + books, and it is because of that that they are our masters, and live in + palaces, and do not work. When the toilers learn to read and write—all + of them—they will grow strong; then they will use their strength to + break their bonds, and there will be no more masters and no more slaves. + </p> + <p> + Kingsbury, my brothers, is in the old State of Alabama. For three hundred + years the Vanderwaters have owned Kingsbury and its slave pens and + factories, and slave pens and factories in many other places and States. + You have heard of the Vanderwaters—who has not?—but let me + tell you things you do not know about them. The first Vanderwater was a + slave, even as you and I. Have you got that? He was a slave, and that was + over three hundred years ago. His father was a machinist in the slave pen + of Alexander Burrell, and his mother was a washerwoman in the same slave + pen. There is no doubt about this. I am telling you truth. It is history. + It is printed, every word of it, in the history books of our masters, + which you cannot read because your masters will not permit you to learn to + read. You can understand why they will not permit you to learn to read, + when there are such things in the books. They know, and they are very + wise. If you did read such things, you might be wanting in respect to your + masters, which would be a dangerous thing... to your masters. But I know, + for I can read, and I am telling you what I have read with my own eyes in + the history books of our masters. + </p> + <p> + The first Vanderwater's name was not Vanderwater; it was Vange—Bill + Vange, the son of Yergis Vange, the machinist, and Laura Carnly, the + washerwoman. Young Bill Vange was strong. He might have remained with the + slaves and led them to freedom; instead, however, he served the masters + and was well rewarded. He began his service, when yet a small child, as a + spy in his home slave pen. He is known to have informed on his own father + for seditious utterance. This is fact. I have read it with my own eyes in + the records. He was too good a slave for the slave pen. Alexander Burrell + took him out, while yet a child, and he was taught to read and write. He + was taught many things, and he was entered in the secret service of the + Government. Of course, he no longer wore the slave dress, except for + disguise at such times when he sought to penetrate the secrets and plots + of the slaves. It was he, when but eighteen years of age, who brought that + great hero and comrade, Ralph Jacobus, to trial and execution in the + electric chair. Of course, you have all heard the sacred name of Ralph + Jacobus, but it is news to you that he was brought to his death by the + first Vanderwater, whose name was Vange. I know. I have read it in the + books. There are many interesting things like that in the books. + </p> + <p> + And after Ralph Jacobus died his shameful death, Bill Vange's name began + the many changes it was to undergo. He was known as “Sly Vange” far and + wide. He rose high in the secret service, and he was rewarded in grand + ways, but still he was not a member of the master class. The men were + willing that he should become so; it was the women of the master class who + refused to have Sly Vange one of them. Sly Vange gave good service to the + masters. He had been a slave himself, and he knew the ways of the slaves. + There was no fooling him. In those days the slaves were braver than now, + and they were always trying for their freedom. And Sly Vange was + everywhere, in all their schemes and plans, bringing their schemes and + plans to naught and their leaders to the electric chair. It was in 2255 + that his name was next changed for him. It was in that year that the Great + Mutiny took place. In that region west of the Rocky Mountains, seventeen + millions of slaves strove bravely to overthrow their masters. Who knows, + if Sly Vange had not lived, but that they would have succeeded? But Sly + Vange was very much alive. The masters gave him supreme command of the + situation. In eight months of fighting, one million and three hundred and + fifty thousand slaves were killed. Vange, Bill Vange, Sly Vange, killed + them, and he broke the Great Mutiny. And he was greatly rewarded, and so + red were his hands with the blood of the slaves that thereafter he was + called “Bloody Vange.” You see, my brothers, what interesting things are + to be found in the books when one can read them. And, take my word for it, + there are many other things, even more interesting, in the books. And if + you will but study with me, in a year's time you can read those books for + yourselves—ay, in six months some of you will be able to read those + books for yourselves. + </p> + <p> + Bloody Vange lived to a ripe old age, and always, to the last, was he + received in the councils of the masters; but never was he made a master + himself. He had first opened his eyes, you see, in a slave pen. But oh, he + was well rewarded! He had a dozen palaces in which to live. He, who was no + master, owned thousands of slaves. He had a great pleasure yacht upon the + sea that was a floating palace, and he owned a whole island in the sea + where toiled ten thousand slaves on his coffee plantations. But in his old + age he was lonely, for he lived apart, hated by his brothers, the slaves, + and looked down upon by those he had served and who refused to be his + brothers. The masters looked down upon him because he had been born a + slave. Enormously wealthy he died; but he died horribly, tormented by his + conscience, regretting all he had done and the red stain on his name. + </p> + <p> + But with his children it was different. They had not been born in the + slave pen, and by the special ruling of the Chief Oligarch of that time, + John Morrison, they were elevated to the master class. And it was then + that the name of Vange disappears from the page of history. It becomes + Vanderwater, and Jason Vange, the son of Bloody Vange, becomes Jason + Vanderwater, the founder of the Vanderwater line. But that was three + hundred years ago, and the Vanderwaters of to-day forget their beginnings + and imagine that somehow the clay of their bodies is different stuff from + the clay in your body and mine and in the bodies of all slaves. And I ask + you, Why should a slave become the master of another slave? And why should + the son of a slave become the master of many slaves? I leave these + questions for you to answer for yourselves, but do not forget that in the + beginning the Vanderwaters were slaves. + </p> + <p> + And now, my brothers, I come back to the beginning of my tale to tell you + of Tom Dixon's arm. Roger Vanderwater's factory in Kingsbury was rightly + named “Hell's Bottom,” but the men who toiled in it were men, as you shall + see. Women toiled there, too, and children, little children. All that + toiled there had the regular slave rights under the law, but only under + the law, for they were deprived of many of their rights by the two + overseers of Hell's Bottom, Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster. + </p> + <p> + It is a long story, but I shall not tell all of it to you. I shall tell + only about the arm. It happened that, according to the law, a portion of + the starvation wage of the slaves was held back each month and put into a + fund. This fund was for the purpose of helping such unfortunate + fellow-workmen as happened to be injured by accidents or to be overtaken + by sickness. As you know with yourselves, these funds are controlled by + the overseers. It is the law, and so it was that the fund at Hell's Bottom + was controlled by the two overseers of accursed memory. + </p> + <p> + Now, Clancy and Munster took this fund for their own use. When accidents + happened to the workmen, their fellows, as was the custom, made grants + from the fund; but the overseers refused to pay over the grants. What + could the slaves do? They had their rights under the law, but they had no + access to the law. Those that complained to the overseers were punished. + You know yourselves what form such punishment takes—the fines for + faulty work that is not faulty; the overcharging of accounts in the + Company's store; the vile treatment of one's women and children; and the + allotment to bad machines whereon, work as one will, he starves. + </p> + <p> + Once, the slaves of Hell's Bottom protested to Vanderwater. It was the + time of the year when he spent several months in Kingsbury. One of the + slaves could write; it chanced that his mother could write, and she had + secretly taught him as her mother had secretly taught her. So this slave + wrote a round robin, wherein was contained their grievances, and all the + slaves signed by mark. And, with proper stamps upon the envelope, the + round robin was mailed to Roger Vanderwater. And Roger Vanderwater did + nothing, save to turn the round robin over to the two overseers. Clancy + and Munster were angered. They turned the guards loose at night on the + slave pen. The guards were armed with pick handles. It is said that next + day only half of the slaves were able to work in Hell's Bottom. They were + well beaten. The slave who could write was so badly beaten that he lived + only three months. But before he died, he wrote once more, to what purpose + you shall hear. + </p> + <p> + Four or five weeks afterward, Tom Dixon, a slave, had his arm torn off by + a belt in Hell's Bottom. His fellow-workmen, as usual, made a grant to him + from the fund, and Clancy and Munster, as usual, refused to pay it over + from the fund. The slave who could write, and who even then was dying, + wrote anew a recital of their grievances. And this document was thrust + into the hand of the arm that had been torn from Tom Dixon's body. + </p> + <p> + Now it chanced that Roger Vanderwater was lying ill in his palace at the + other end of Kingsbury—not the dire illness that strikes down you + and me, brothers; just a bit of biliousness, mayhap, or no more than a bad + headache because he had eaten too heartily or drunk too deeply. But it was + enough for him, being tender and soft from careful rearing. Such men, + packed in cotton wool all their lives, are exceeding tender and soft. + Believe me, brothers, Roger Vanderwater felt as badly with his aching + head, or THOUGHT he felt as badly, as Tom Dixon really felt with his arm + torn out by the roots. + </p> + <p> + It happened that Roger Vanderwater was fond of scientific farming, and + that on his farm, three miles outside of Kingsbury, he had managed to grow + a new kind of strawberry. He was very proud of that new strawberry of his, + and he would have been out to see and pick the first ripe ones, had it not + been for his illness. Because of his illness he had ordered the old farm + slave to bring in personally the first box of the berries. All this was + learned from the gossip of a palace scullion, who slept each night in the + slave pen. The overseer of the plantation should have brought in the + berries, but he was on his back with a broken leg from trying to break a + colt. The scullion brought the word in the night, and it was known that + next day the berries would come in. And the men in the slave pen of Hell's + Bottom, being men and not cowards, held a council. + </p> + <p> + The slave who could write, and who was sick and dying from the pick-handle + beating, said he would carry Tom Dixon's arm; also, he said he must die + anyway, and that it mattered nothing if he died a little sooner. So five + slaves stole from the slave pen that night after the guards had made their + last rounds. One of the slaves was the man who could write. They lay in + the brush by the roadside until late in the morning, when the old farm + slave came driving to town with the precious fruit for the master. What of + the farm slave being old and rheumatic, and of the slave who could write + being stiff and injured from his beating, they moved their bodies about + when they walked, very much in the same fashion. The slave who could write + put on the other's clothes, pulled the broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, + climbed upon the seat of the wagon, and drove on to town. The old farm + slave was kept tied all day in the bushes until evening, when the others + loosed him and went back to the slave pen to take their punishment for + having broken bounds. + </p> + <p> + In the meantime, Roger Vanderwater lay waiting for the berries in his + wonderful bedroom—such wonders and such comforts were there that + they would have blinded the eyes of you and me who have never seen such + things. The slave who could write said afterward that it was like a + glimpse of Paradise! And why not? The labour and the lives of ten thousand + slaves had gone to the making of that bedchamber, while they themselves + slept in vile lairs like wild beasts. The slave who could write brought in + the berries on a silver tray or platter—you see, Roger Vanderwater + wanted to speak with him in person about the berries. + </p> + <p> + The slave who could write tottered his dying body across the wonderful + room and knelt by the couch of Vanderwater, holding out before him the + tray. Large green leaves covered the top of the tray, and these the + body-servant alongside whisked away so that Vanderwater could see. And + Roger Vanderwater, propped upon his elbow, saw. He saw the fresh, + wonderful fruit lying there like precious jewels, and in the midst of it + the arm of Tom Dixon as it had been torn from his body, well washed, of + course, my brothers, and very white against the blood-red fruit. And also + he saw, clutched in the stiff, dead fingers, the petition of his slaves + who toiled in Hell's Bottom. + </p> + <p> + “Take and read,” said the slave who could write. And even as the master + took the petition, the body-servant, who till then had been motionless + with surprise, struck with his fist the kneeling slave upon the mouth. The + slave was dying anyway, and was very weak, and did not mind. He made no + sound, and, having fallen over on his side, he lay there quietly, bleeding + from the blow on the mouth. The physician, who had run for the palace + guards, came back with them, and the slave was dragged upright upon his + feet. But as they dragged him up, his hand clutched Tom Dixon's arm from + where it had fallen on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “He shall be flung alive to the hounds!” the body-servant was crying in + great wrath. “He shall be flung alive to the hounds!” + </p> + <p> + But Roger Vanderwater, forgetting his headache, still leaning on his + elbow, commanded silence, and went on reading the petition. And while he + read, there was silence, all standing upright, the wrathful body-servant, + the physician, the palace guards, and in their midst the slave, bleeding + at the mouth and still holding Tom Dixon's arm. And when Roger Vanderwater + had done, he turned upon the slave, saying— + </p> + <p> + “If in this paper there be one lie, you shall be sorry that you were ever + born.” + </p> + <p> + And the slave said, “I have been sorry all my life that I was born.” + </p> + <p> + Roger Vanderwater looked at him closely, and the slave said— + </p> + <p> + “You have done your worst to me. I am dying now. In a week I shall be + dead, so it does not matter if you kill me now.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you with that?” the master asked, pointing to the arm; and the + slave made answer— + </p> + <p> + “I take it back to the pen to give it burial. Tom Dixon was my friend. We + worked beside each other at our looms.” + </p> + <p> + There is little more to my tale, brothers. The slave and the arm were sent + back in a cart to the pen. Nor were any of the slaves punished for what + they had done. Indeed, Roger Vanderwater made investigation and punished + the two overseers, Joseph Clancy and Adolph Munster. Their freeholds were + taken from them. They were branded, each upon the forehead, their right + hands were cut off, and they were turned loose upon the highway to wander + and beg until they died. And the fund was managed rightfully thereafter + for a time—for a time only, my brothers; for after Roger Vanderwater + came his son, Albert, who was a cruel master and half mad. + </p> + <p> + Brothers, that slave who carried the arm into the presence of the master + was my father. He was a brave man. And even as his mother secretly taught + him to read, so did he teach me. Because he died shortly after from the + pick-handle beating, Roger Vanderwater took me out of the slave pen and + tried to make various better things out of me. I might have become an + overseer in Hell's Bottom, but I chose to become a story-teller, wandering + over the land and getting close to my brothers, the slaves, everywhere. + And I tell you stories like this, secretly, knowing that you will not + betray me; for if you did, you know as well as I that my tongue will be + torn out and that I shall tell stories no more. And my message is, + brothers, that there is a good time coming, when all will be well in the + world and there will be neither masters nor slaves. But first you must + prepare for that good time by learning to read. There is power in the + printed word. And here am I to teach you to read, and as well there are + others to see that you get the books when I am gone along upon my way—the + history books wherein you will learn about your masters, and learn to + become strong even as they. + </p> + <p> + [EDITOR'S NOTE.—From “Historical Fragments and Sketches,” first + published in fifty volumes in 4427, and now, after two hundred years, + because of its accuracy and value, edited and republished by the National + Committee on Historical Research.] + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PIECE OF STEAK + </h2> + <p> + With the last morsel of bread Tom King wiped his plate clean of the last + particle of flour gravy and chewed the resulting mouthful in a slow and + meditative way. When he arose from the table, he was oppressed by the + feeling that he was distinctly hungry. Yet he alone had eaten. The two + children in the other room had been sent early to bed in order that in + sleep they might forget they had gone supperless. His wife had touched + nothing, and had sat silently and watched him with solicitous eyes. She + was a thin, worn woman of the working-class, though signs of an earlier + prettiness were not wanting in her face. The flour for the gravy she had + borrowed from the neighbour across the hall. The last two ha'pennies had + gone to buy the bread. + </p> + <p> + He sat down by the window on a rickety chair that protested under his + weight, and quite mechanically he put his pipe in his mouth and dipped + into the side pocket of his coat. The absence of any tobacco made him + aware of his action, and, with a scowl for his forgetfulness, he put the + pipe away. His movements were slow, almost hulking, as though he were + burdened by the heavy weight of his muscles. He was a solid-bodied, + stolid-looking man, and his appearance did not suffer from being + overprepossessing. His rough clothes were old and slouchy. The uppers of + his shoes were too weak to carry the heavy re-soling that was itself of no + recent date. And his cotton shirt, a cheap, two shilling affair, showed a + frayed collar and ineradicable paint stains. + </p> + <p> + But it was Tom King's face that advertised him unmistakably for what he + was. It was the face of a typical prize-fighter; of one who had put in + long years of service in the squared ring and, by that means, developed + and emphasized all the marks of the fighting beast. It was distinctly a + lowering countenance, and, that no feature of it might escape notice, it + was clean-shaven. The lips were shapeless and constituted a mouth harsh to + excess, that was like a gash in his face. The jaw was aggressive, brutal, + heavy. The eyes, slow of movement and heavy-lidded, were almost + expressionless under the shaggy, indrawn brows. Sheer animal that he was, + the eyes were the most animal-like feature about him. They were sleepy, + lion-like—the eyes of a fighting animal. The forehead slanted + quickly back to the hair, which, clipped close, showed every bump of a + villainous-looking head. A nose twice broken and moulded variously by + countless blows, and a cauliflower ear, permanently swollen and distorted + to twice its size, completed his adornment, while the beard, fresh-shaven + as it was, sprouted in the skin and gave the face a blue-black stain. + </p> + <p> + Altogether, it was the face of a man to be afraid of in a dark alley or + lonely place. And yet Tom King was not a criminal, nor had he ever done + anything criminal. Outside of brawls, common to his walk in life, he had + harmed no one. Nor had he ever been known to pick a quarrel. He was a + professional, and all the fighting brutishness of him was reserved for his + professional appearances. Outside the ring he was slow-going, + easy-natured, and, in his younger days, when money was flush, too + open-handed for his own good. He bore no grudges and had few enemies. + Fighting was a business with him. In the ring he struck to hurt, struck to + maim, struck to destroy; but there was no animus in it. It was a plain + business proposition. Audiences assembled and paid for the spectacle of + men knocking each other out. The winner took the big end of the purse. + When Tom King faced the Woolloomoolloo Gouger, twenty years before, he + knew that the Gouger's jaw was only four months healed after having been + broken in a Newcastle bout. And he had played for that jaw and broken it + again in the ninth round, not because he bore the Gouger any ill-will, but + because that was the surest way to put the Gouger out and win the big end + of the purse. Nor had the Gouger borne him any ill-will for it. It was the + game, and both knew the game and played it. + </p> + <p> + Tom King had never been a talker, and he sat by the window, morosely + silent, staring at his hands. The veins stood out on the backs of the + hands, large and swollen; and the knuckles, smashed and battered and + malformed, testified to the use to which they had been put. He had never + heard that a man's life was the life of his arteries, but well he knew the + meaning of those big upstanding veins. His heart had pumped too much blood + through them at top pressure. They no longer did the work. He had + stretched the elasticity out of them, and with their distension had passed + his endurance. He tired easily now. No longer could he do a fast twenty + rounds, hammer and tongs, fight, fight, fight, from gong to gong, with + fierce rally on top of fierce rally, beaten to the ropes and in turn + beating his opponent to the ropes, and rallying fiercest and fastest of + all in that last, twentieth round, with the house on its feet and yelling, + himself rushing, striking, ducking, raining showers of blows upon showers + of blows and receiving showers of blows in return, and all the time the + heart faithfully pumping the surging blood through the adequate veins. The + veins, swollen at the time, had always shrunk down again, though each + time, imperceptibly at first, not quite—remaining just a trifle + larger than before. He stared at them and at his battered knuckles, and, + for the moment, caught a vision of the youthful excellence of those hands + before the first knuckle had been smashed on the head of Benny Jones, + otherwise known as the Welsh Terror. + </p> + <p> + The impression of his hunger came back on him. + </p> + <p> + “Blimey, but couldn't I go a piece of steak!” he muttered aloud, clenching + his huge fists and spitting out a smothered oath. + </p> + <p> + “I tried both Burke's an' Sawley's,” his wife said half apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “An' they wouldn't?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Not a ha'penny. Burke said—” She faltered. + </p> + <p> + “G'wan! Wot'd he say?” + </p> + <p> + “As how 'e was thinkin' Sandel ud do ye to-night, an' as how yer score was + comfortable big as it was.” + </p> + <p> + Tom King grunted, but did not reply. He was busy thinking of the bull + terrier he had kept in his younger days to which he had fed steaks without + end. Burke would have given him credit for a thousand steaks—then. + But times had changed. Tom King was getting old; and old men, fighting + before second-rate clubs, couldn't expect to run bills of any size with + the tradesmen. + </p> + <p> + He had got up in the morning with a longing for a piece of steak, and the + longing had not abated. He had not had a fair training for this fight. It + was a drought year in Australia, times were hard, and even the most + irregular work was difficult to find. He had had no sparring partner, and + his food had not been of the best nor always sufficient. He had done a few + days' navvy work when he could get it, and he had run around the Domain in + the early mornings to get his legs in shape. But it was hard, training + without a partner and with a wife and two kiddies that must be fed. Credit + with the tradesmen had undergone very slight expansion when he was matched + with Sandel. The secretary of the Gayety Club had advanced him three + pounds—the loser's end of the purse—and beyond that had + refused to go. Now and again he had managed to borrow a few shillings from + old pals, who would have lent more only that it was a drought year and + they were hard put themselves. No—and there was no use in disguising + the fact—his training had not been satisfactory. He should have had + better food and no worries. Besides, when a man is forty, it is harder to + get into condition than when he is twenty. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it, Lizzie?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + His wife went across the hall to inquire, and came back. + </p> + <p> + “Quarter before eight.” + </p> + <p> + “They'll be startin' the first bout in a few minutes,” he said. “Only a + try-out. Then there's a four-round spar 'tween Dealer Wells an' Gridley, + an' a ten-round go 'tween Starlight an' some sailor bloke. I don't come on + for over an hour.” + </p> + <p> + At the end of another silent ten minutes, he rose to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Truth is, Lizzie, I ain't had proper trainin'.” + </p> + <p> + He reached for his hat and started for the door. He did not offer to kiss + her—he never did on going out—but on this night she dared to + kiss him, throwing her arms around him and compelling him to bend down to + her face. She looked quite small against the massive bulk of the man. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck, Tom,” she said. “You gotter do 'im.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I gotter do 'im,” he repeated. “That's all there is to it. I jus' + gotter do 'im.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed with an attempt at heartiness, while she pressed more closely + against him. Across her shoulders he looked around the bare room. It was + all he had in the world, with the rent overdue, and her and the kiddies. + And he was leaving it to go out into the night to get meat for his mate + and cubs—not like a modern working-man going to his machine grind, + but in the old, primitive, royal, animal way, by fighting for it. + </p> + <p> + “I gotter do 'im,” he repeated, this time a hint of desperation in his + voice. “If it's a win, it's thirty quid—an' I can pay all that's + owin', with a lump o' money left over. If it's a lose, I get naught—not + even a penny for me to ride home on the tram. The secretary's give all + that's comin' from a loser's end. Good-bye, old woman. I'll come straight + home if it's a win.” + </p> + <p> + “An' I'll be waitin' up,” she called to him along the hall. + </p> + <p> + It was full two miles to the Gayety, and as he walked along he remembered + how in his palmy days—he had once been the heavyweight champion of + New South Wales—he would have ridden in a cab to the fight, and how, + most likely, some heavy backer would have paid for the cab and ridden with + him. There were Tommy Burns and that Yankee nigger, Jack Johnson—they + rode about in motor-cars. And he walked! And, as any man knew, a hard two + miles was not the best preliminary to a fight. He was an old un, and the + world did not wag well with old uns. He was good for nothing now except + navvy work, and his broken nose and swollen ear were against him even in + that. He found himself wishing that he had learned a trade. It would have + been better in the long run. But no one had told him, and he knew, deep + down in his heart, that he would not have listened if they had. It had + been so easy. Big money—sharp, glorious fights—periods of rest + and loafing in between—a following of eager flatterers, the slaps on + the back, the shakes of the hand, the toffs glad to buy him a drink for + the privilege of five minutes' talk—and the glory of it, the yelling + houses, the whirlwind finish, the referee's “King wins!” and his name in + the sporting columns next day. + </p> + <p> + Those had been times! But he realized now, in his slow, ruminating way, + that it was the old uns he had been putting away. He was Youth, rising; + and they were Age, sinking. No wonder it had been easy—they with + their swollen veins and battered knuckles and weary in the bones of them + from the long battles they had already fought. He remembered the time he + put out old Stowsher Bill, at Rush-Cutters Bay, in the eighteenth round, + and how old Bill had cried afterward in the dressing-room like a baby. + Perhaps old Bill's rent had been overdue. Perhaps he'd had at home a + missus an' a couple of kiddies. And perhaps Bill, that very day of the + fight, had had a hungering for a piece of steak. Bill had fought game and + taken incredible punishment. He could see now, after he had gone through + the mill himself, that Stowsher Bill had fought for a bigger stake, that + night twenty years ago, than had young Tom King, who had fought for glory + and easy money. No wonder Stowsher Bill had cried afterward in the + dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + Well, a man had only so many fights in him, to begin with. It was the iron + law of the game. One man might have a hundred hard fights in him, another + man only twenty; each, according to the make of him and the quality of his + fibre, had a definite number, and, when he had fought them, he was done. + Yes, he had had more fights in him than most of them, and he had had far + more than his share of the hard, gruelling fights—the kind that + worked the heart and lungs to bursting, that took the elastic out of the + arteries and made hard knots of muscle out of Youth's sleek suppleness, + that wore out nerve and stamina and made brain and bones weary from excess + of effort and endurance overwrought. Yes, he had done better than all of + them. There were none of his old fighting partners left. He was the last + of the old guard. He had seen them all finished, and he had had a hand in + finishing some of them. + </p> + <p> + They had tried him out against the old uns, and one after another he had + put them away—laughing when, like old Stowsher Bill, they cried in + the dressing-room. And now he was an old un, and they tried out the + youngsters on him. There was that bloke, Sandel. He had come over from New + Zealand with a record behind him. But nobody in Australia knew anything + about him, so they put him up against old Tom King. If Sandel made a + showing, he would be given better men to fight, with bigger purses to win; + so it was to be depended upon that he would put up a fierce battle. He had + everything to win by it—money and glory and career; and Tom King was + the grizzled old chopping-block that guarded the highway to fame and + fortune. And he had nothing to win except thirty quid, to pay to the + landlord and the tradesmen. And, as Tom King thus ruminated, there came to + his stolid vision the form of Youth, glorious Youth, rising exultant and + invincible, supple of muscle and silken of skin, with heart and lungs that + had never been tired and torn and that laughed at limitation of effort. + Yes, Youth was the Nemesis. It destroyed the old uns and recked not that, + in so doing, it destroyed itself. It enlarged its arteries and smashed its + knuckles, and was in turn destroyed by Youth. For Youth was ever youthful. + It was only Age that grew old. + </p> + <p> + At Castlereagh Street he turned to the left, and three blocks along came + to the Gayety. A crowd of young larrikins hanging outside the door made + respectful way for him, and he heard one say to another: “That's 'im! + That's Tom King!” + </p> + <p> + Inside, on the way to his dressing-room, he encountered the secretary, a + keen-eyed, shrewd-faced young man, who shook his hand. + </p> + <p> + “How are you feelin', Tom?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Fit as a fiddle,” King answered, though he knew that he lied, and that if + he had a quid, he would give it right there for a good piece of steak. + </p> + <p> + When he emerged from the dressing-room, his seconds behind him, and came + down the aisle to the squared ring in the centre of the hall, a burst of + greeting and applause went up from the waiting crowd. He acknowledged + salutations right and left, though few of the faces did he know. Most of + them were the faces of kiddies unborn when he was winning his first + laurels in the squared ring. He leaped lightly to the raised platform and + ducked through the ropes to his corner, where he sat down on a folding + stool. Jack Ball, the referee, came over and shook his hand. Ball was a + broken-down pugilist who for over ten years had not entered the ring as a + principal. King was glad that he had him for referee. They were both old + uns. If he should rough it with Sandel a bit beyond the rules, he knew + Ball could be depended upon to pass it by. + </p> + <p> + Aspiring young heavyweights, one after another, were climbing into the + ring and being presented to the audience by the referee. Also, he issued + their challenges for them. + </p> + <p> + “Young Pronto,” Bill announced, “from North Sydney, challenges the winner + for fifty pounds side bet.” + </p> + <p> + The audience applauded, and applauded again as Sandel himself sprang + through the ropes and sat down in his corner. Tom King looked across the + ring at him curiously, for in a few minutes they would be locked together + in merciless combat, each trying with all the force of him to knock the + other into unconsciousness. But little could he see, for Sandel, like + himself, had trousers and sweater on over his ring costume. His face was + strongly handsome, crowned with a curly mop of yellow hair, while his + thick, muscular neck hinted at bodily magnificence. + </p> + <p> + Young Pronto went to one corner and then the other, shaking hands with the + principals and dropping down out of the ring. The challenges went on. Ever + Youth climbed through the ropes—Youth unknown, but insatiable—crying + out to mankind that with strength and skill it would match issues with the + winner. A few years before, in his own heyday of invincibleness, Tom King + would have been amused and bored by these preliminaries. But now he sat + fascinated, unable to shake the vision of Youth from his eyes. Always were + these youngsters rising up in the boxing game, springing through the ropes + and shouting their defiance; and always were the old uns going down before + them. They climbed to success over the bodies of the old uns. And ever + they came, more and more youngsters—Youth unquenchable and + irresistible—and ever they put the old uns away, themselves becoming + old uns and travelling the same downward path, while behind them, ever + pressing on them, was Youth eternal—the new babies, grown lusty and + dragging their elders down, with behind them more babies to the end of + time—Youth that must have its will and that will never die. + </p> + <p> + King glanced over to the press box and nodded to Morgan, of the Sportsman, + and Corbett, of the Referee. Then he held out his hands, while Sid + Sullivan and Charley Bates, his seconds, slipped on his gloves and laced + them tight, closely watched by one of Sandel's seconds, who first examined + critically the tapes on King's knuckles. A second of his own was in + Sandel's corner, performing a like office. Sandel's trousers were pulled + off, and, as he stood up, his sweater was skinned off over his head. And + Tom King, looking, saw Youth incarnate, deep-chested, heavy-thewed, with + muscles that slipped and slid like live things under the white satin skin. + The whole body was a-crawl with life, and Tom King knew that it was a life + that had never oozed its freshness out through the aching pores during the + long fights wherein Youth paid its toll and departed not quite so young as + when it entered. + </p> + <p> + The two men advanced to meet each other, and, as the gong sounded and the + seconds clattered out of the ring with the folding stools, they shook + hands and instantly took their fighting attitudes. And instantly, like a + mechanism of steel and springs balanced on a hair trigger, Sandel was in + and out and in again, landing a left to the eyes, a right to the ribs, + ducking a counter, dancing lightly away and dancing menacingly back again. + He was swift and clever. It was a dazzling exhibition. The house yelled + its approbation. But King was not dazzled. He had fought too many fights + and too many youngsters. He knew the blows for what they were—too + quick and too deft to be dangerous. Evidently Sandel was going to rush + things from the start. It was to be expected. It was the way of Youth, + expending its splendour and excellence in wild insurgence and furious + onslaught, overwhelming opposition with its own unlimited glory of + strength and desire. + </p> + <p> + Sandel was in and out, here, there, and everywhere, light-footed and + eager-hearted, a living wonder of white flesh and stinging muscle that + wove itself into a dazzling fabric of attack, slipping and leaping like a + flying shuttle from action to action through a thousand actions, all of + them centred upon the destruction of Tom King, who stood between him and + fortune. And Tom King patiently endured. He knew his business, and he knew + Youth now that Youth was no longer his. There was nothing to do till the + other lost some of his steam, was his thought, and he grinned to himself + as he deliberately ducked so as to receive a heavy blow on the top of his + head. It was a wicked thing to do, yet eminently fair according to the + rules of the boxing game. A man was supposed to take care of his own + knuckles, and, if he insisted on hitting an opponent on the top of the + head, he did so at his own peril. King could have ducked lower and let the + blow whiz harmlessly past, but he remembered his own early fights and how + he smashed his first knuckle on the head of the Welsh Terror. He was but + playing the game. That duck had accounted for one of Sandel's knuckles. + Not that Sandel would mind it now. He would go on, superbly regardless, + hitting as hard as ever throughout the fight. But later on, when the long + ring battles had begun to tell, he would regret that knuckle and look back + and remember how he smashed it on Tom King's head. + </p> + <p> + The first round was all Sandel's, and he had the house yelling with the + rapidity of his whirlwind rushes. He overwhelmed King with avalanches of + punches, and King did nothing. He never struck once, contenting himself + with covering up, blocking and ducking and clinching to avoid punishment. + He occasionally feinted, shook his head when the weight of a punch landed, + and moved stolidly about, never leaping or springing or wasting an ounce + of strength. Sandel must foam the froth of Youth away before discreet Age + could dare to retaliate. All King's movements were slow and methodical, + and his heavy-lidded, slow-moving eyes gave him the appearance of being + half asleep or dazed. Yet they were eyes that saw everything, that had + been trained to see everything through all his twenty years and odd in the + ring. They were eyes that did not blink or waver before an impending blow, + but that coolly saw and measured distance. + </p> + <p> + Seated in his corner for the minute's rest at the end of the round, he lay + back with outstretched legs, his arms resting on the right angle of the + ropes, his chest and abdomen heaving frankly and deeply as he gulped down + the air driven by the towels of his seconds. He listened with closed eyes + to the voices of the house, “Why don't yeh fight, Tom?” many were crying. + “Yeh ain't afraid of 'im, are yeh?” + </p> + <p> + “Muscle-bound,” he heard a man on a front seat comment. “He can't move + quicker. Two to one on Sandel, in quids.” + </p> + <p> + The gong struck and the two men advanced from their corners. Sandel came + forward fully three-quarters of the distance, eager to begin again; but + King was content to advance the shorter distance. It was in line with his + policy of economy. He had not been well trained, and he had not had enough + to eat, and every step counted. Besides, he had already walked two miles + to the ringside. It was a repetition of the first round, with Sandel + attacking like a whirlwind and with the audience indignantly demanding why + King did not fight. Beyond feinting and several slowly delivered and + ineffectual blows he did nothing save block and stall and clinch. Sandel + wanted to make the pace fast, while King, out of his wisdom, refused to + accommodate him. He grinned with a certain wistful pathos in his + ring-battered countenance, and went on cherishing his strength with the + jealousy of which only Age is capable. Sandel was Youth, and he threw his + strength away with the munificent abandon of Youth. To King belonged the + ring generalship, the wisdom bred of long, aching fights. He watched with + cool eyes and head, moving slowly and waiting for Sandel's froth to foam + away. To the majority of the onlookers it seemed as though King was + hopelessly outclassed, and they voiced their opinion in offers of three to + one on Sandel. But there were wise ones, a few, who knew King of old time, + and who covered what they considered easy money. + </p> + <p> + The third round began as usual, one-sided, with Sandel doing all the + leading, and delivering all the punishment. A half-minute had passed when + Sandel, over-confident, left an opening. King's eyes and right arm flashed + in the same instant. It was his first real blow—a hook, with the + twisted arch of the arm to make it rigid, and with all the weight of the + half-pivoted body behind it. It was like a sleepy-seeming lion suddenly + thrusting out a lightning paw. Sandel, caught on the side of the jaw, was + felled like a bullock. The audience gasped and murmured awe-stricken + applause. The man was not muscle-bound, after all, and he could drive a + blow like a trip-hammer. + </p> + <p> + Sandel was shaken. He rolled over and attempted to rise, but the sharp + yells from his seconds to take the count restrained him. He knelt on one + knee, ready to rise, and waited, while the referee stood over him, + counting the seconds loudly in his ear. At the ninth he rose in fighting + attitude, and Tom King, facing him, knew regret that the blow had not been + an inch nearer the point of the jaw. That would have been a knock-out, and + he could have carried the thirty quid home to the missus and the kiddies. + </p> + <p> + The round continued to the end of its three minutes, Sandel for the first + time respectful of his opponent and King slow of movement and sleepy-eyed + as ever. As the round neared its close, King, warned of the fact by sight + of the seconds crouching outside ready for the spring in through the + ropes, worked the fight around to his own corner. And when the gong + struck, he sat down immediately on the waiting stool, while Sandel had to + walk all the way across the diagonal of the square to his own corner. It + was a little thing, but it was the sum of little things that counted. + Sandel was compelled to walk that many more steps, to give up that much + energy, and to lose a part of the precious minute of rest. At the + beginning of every round King loafed slowly out from his corner, forcing + his opponent to advance the greater distance. The end of every round found + the fight manoeuvred by King into his own corner so that he could + immediately sit down. + </p> + <p> + Two more rounds went by, in which King was parsimonious of effort and + Sandel prodigal. The latter's attempt to force a fast pace made King + uncomfortable, for a fair percentage of the multitudinous blows showered + upon him went home. Yet King persisted in his dogged slowness, despite the + crying of the young hot-heads for him to go in and fight. Again, in the + sixth round, Sandel was careless, again Tom King's fearful right flashed + out to the jaw, and again Sandel took the nine seconds count. + </p> + <p> + By the seventh round Sandel's pink of condition was gone, and he settled + down to what he knew was to be the hardest fight in his experience. Tom + King was an old un, but a better old un than he had ever encountered—an + old un who never lost his head, who was remarkably able at defence, whose + blows had the impact of a knotted club, and who had a knockout in either + hand. Nevertheless, Tom King dared not hit often. He never forgot his + battered knuckles, and knew that every hit must count if the knuckles were + to last out the fight. As he sat in his corner, glancing across at his + opponent, the thought came to him that the sum of his wisdom and Sandel's + youth would constitute a world's champion heavyweight. But that was the + trouble. Sandel would never become a world champion. He lacked the wisdom, + and the only way for him to get it was to buy it with Youth; and when + wisdom was his, Youth would have been spent in buying it. + </p> + <p> + King took every advantage he knew. He never missed an opportunity to + clinch, and in effecting most of the clinches his shoulder drove stiffly + into the other's ribs. In the philosophy of the ring a shoulder was as + good as a punch so far as damage was concerned, and a great deal better so + far as concerned expenditure of effort. Also, in the clinches King rested + his weight on his opponent, and was loath to let go. This compelled the + interference of the referee, who tore them apart, always assisted by + Sandel, who had not yet learned to rest. He could not refrain from using + those glorious flying arms and writhing muscles of his, and when the other + rushed into a clinch, striking shoulder against ribs, and with head + resting under Sandel's left arm, Sandel almost invariably swung his right + behind his own back and into the projecting face. It was a clever stroke, + much admired by the audience, but it was not dangerous, and was, + therefore, just that much wasted strength. But Sandel was tireless and + unaware of limitations, and King grinned and doggedly endured. + </p> + <p> + Sandel developed a fierce right to the body, which made it appear that + King was taking an enormous amount of punishment, and it was only the old + ringsters who appreciated the deft touch of King's left glove to the + other's biceps just before the impact of the blow. It was true, the blow + landed each time; but each time it was robbed of its power by that touch + on the biceps. In the ninth round, three times inside a minute, King's + right hooked its twisted arch to the jaw; and three times Sandel's body, + heavy as it was, was levelled to the mat. Each time he took the nine + seconds allowed him and rose to his feet, shaken and jarred, but still + strong. He had lost much of his speed, and he wasted less effort. He was + fighting grimly; but he continued to draw upon his chief asset, which was + Youth. King's chief asset was experience. As his vitality had dimmed and + his vigour abated, he had replaced them with cunning, with wisdom born of + the long fights and with a careful shepherding of strength. Not alone had + he learned never to make a superfluous movement, but he had learned how to + seduce an opponent into throwing his strength away. Again and again, by + feint of foot and hand and body he continued to inveigle Sandel into + leaping back, ducking, or countering. King rested, but he never permitted + Sandel to rest. It was the strategy of Age. + </p> + <p> + Early in the tenth round King began stopping the other's rushes with + straight lefts to the face, and Sandel, grown wary, responded by drawing + the left, then by ducking it and delivering his right in a swinging hook + to the side of the head. It was too high up to be vitally effective; but + when first it landed, King knew the old, familiar descent of the black + veil of unconsciousness across his mind. For the instant, or for the + slighest fraction of an instant, rather, he ceased. In the one moment he + saw his opponent ducking out of his field of vision and the background of + white, watching faces; in the next moment he again saw his opponent and + the background of faces. It was as if he had slept for a time and just + opened his eyes again, and yet the interval of unconsciousness was so + microscopically short that there had been no time for him to fall. The + audience saw him totter and his knees give, and then saw him recover and + tuck his chin deeper into the shelter of his left shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Several times Sandel repeated the blow, keeping King partially dazed, and + then the latter worked out his defence, which was also a counter. Feinting + with his left he took a half-step backward, at the same time upper cutting + with the whole strength of his right. So accurately was it timed that it + landed squarely on Sandel's face in the full, downward sweep of the duck, + and Sandel lifted in the air and curled backward, striking the mat on his + head and shoulders. Twice King achieved this, then turned loose and + hammered his opponent to the ropes. He gave Sandel no chance to rest or to + set himself, but smashed blow in upon blow till the house rose to its feet + and the air was filled with an unbroken roar of applause. But Sandel's + strength and endurance were superb, and he continued to stay on his feet. + A knock-out seemed certain, and a captain of police, appalled at the + dreadful punishment, arose by the ringside to stop the fight. The gong + struck for the end of the round and Sandel staggered to his corner, + protesting to the captain that he was sound and strong. To prove it, he + threw two back-air-springs, and the police captain gave in. + </p> + <p> + Tom King, leaning back in his corner and breathing hard, was disappointed. + If the fight had been stopped, the referee, perforce, would have rendered + him the decision and the purse would have been his. Unlike Sandel, he was + not fighting for glory or career, but for thirty quid. And now Sandel + would recuperate in the minute of rest. + </p> + <p> + Youth will be served—this saying flashed into King's mind, and he + remembered the first time he had heard it, the night when he had put away + Stowsher Bill. The toff who had bought him a drink after the fight and + patted him on the shoulder had used those words. Youth will be served! The + toff was right. And on that night in the long ago he had been Youth. + To-night Youth sat in the opposite corner. As for himself, he had been + fighting for half an hour now, and he was an old man. Had he fought like + Sandel, he would not have lasted fifteen minutes. But the point was that + he did not recuperate. Those upstanding arteries and that sorely tried + heart would not enable him to gather strength in the intervals between the + rounds. And he had not had sufficient strength in him to begin with. His + legs were heavy under him and beginning to cramp. He should not have + walked those two miles to the fight. And there was the steak which he had + got up longing for that morning. A great and terrible hatred rose up in + him for the butchers who had refused him credit. It was hard for an old + man to go into a fight without enough to eat. And a piece of steak was + such a little thing, a few pennies at best; yet it meant thirty quid to + him. + </p> + <p> + With the gong that opened the eleventh round, Sandel rushed, making a show + of freshness which he did not really possess. King knew it for what it was—a + bluff as old as the game itself. He clinched to save himself, then, going + free, allowed Sandel to get set. This was what King desired. He feinted + with his left, drew the answering duck and swinging upward hook, then made + the half-step backward, delivered the upper cut full to the face and + crumpled Sandel over to the mat. After that he never let him rest, + receiving punishment himself, but inflicting far more, smashing Sandel to + the ropes, hooking and driving all manner of blows into him, tearing away + from his clinches or punching him out of attempted clinches, and ever when + Sandel would have fallen, catching him with one uplifting hand and with + the other immediately smashing him into the ropes where he could not fall. + </p> + <p> + The house by this time had gone mad, and it was his house, nearly every + voice yelling: “Go it, Tom!” “Get 'im! Get 'im!” “You've got 'im, Tom! + You've got 'im!” It was to be a whirlwind finish, and that was what a + ringside audience paid to see. + </p> + <p> + And Tom King, who for half an hour had conserved his strength, now + expended it prodigally in the one great effort he knew he had in him. It + was his one chance—now or not at all. His strength was waning fast, + and his hope was that before the last of it ebbed out of him he would have + beaten his opponent down for the count. And as he continued to strike and + force, coolly estimating the weight of his blows and the quality of the + damage wrought, he realized how hard a man Sandel was to knock out. + Stamina and endurance were his to an extreme degree, and they were the + virgin stamina and endurance of Youth. Sandel was certainly a coming man. + He had it in him. Only out of such rugged fibre were successful fighters + fashioned. + </p> + <p> + Sandel was reeling and staggering, but Tom King's legs were cramping and + his knuckles going back on him. Yet he steeled himself to strike the + fierce blows, every one of which brought anguish to his tortured hands. + Though now he was receiving practically no punishment, he was weakening as + rapidly as the other. His blows went home, but there was no longer the + weight behind them, and each blow was the result of a severe effort of + will. His legs were like lead, and they dragged visibly under him; while + Sandel's backers, cheered by this symptom, began calling encouragement to + their man. + </p> + <p> + King was spurred to a burst of effort. He delivered two blows in + succession—a left, a trifle too high, to the solar plexus, and a + right cross to the jaw. They were not heavy blows, yet so weak and dazed + was Sandel that he went down and lay quivering. The referee stood over + him, shouting the count of the fatal seconds in his ear. If before the + tenth second was called, he did not rise, the fight was lost. The house + stood in hushed silence. King rested on trembling legs. A mortal dizziness + was upon him, and before his eyes the sea of faces sagged and swayed, + while to his ears, as from a remote distance, came the count of the + referee. Yet he looked upon the fight as his. It was impossible that a man + so punished could rise. + </p> + <p> + Only Youth could rise, and Sandel rose. At the fourth second he rolled + over on his face and groped blindly for the ropes. By the seventh second + he had dragged himself to his knee, where he rested, his head rolling + groggily on his shoulders. As the referee cried “Nine!” Sandel stood + upright, in proper stalling position, his left arm wrapped about his face, + his right wrapped about his stomach. Thus were his vital points guarded, + while he lurched forward toward King in the hope of effecting a clinch and + gaining more time. + </p> + <p> + At the instant Sandel arose, King was at him, but the two blows he + delivered were muffled on the stalled arms. The next moment Sandel was in + the clinch and holding on desperately while the referee strove to drag the + two men apart. King helped to force himself free. He knew the rapidity + with which Youth recovered, and he knew that Sandel was his if he could + prevent that recovery. One stiff punch would do it. Sandel was his, + indubitably his. He had out-generalled him, out-fought him, out-pointed + him. Sandel reeled out of the clinch, balanced on the hair line between + defeat or survival. One good blow would topple him over and down and out. + And Tom King, in a flash of bitterness, remembered the piece of steak and + wished that he had it then behind that necessary punch he must deliver. He + nerved himself for the blow, but it was not heavy enough nor swift enough. + Sandel swayed, but did not fall, staggering back to the ropes and holding + on. King staggered after him, and, with a pang like that of dissolution, + delivered another blow. But his body had deserted him. All that was left + of him was a fighting intelligence that was dimmed and clouded from + exhaustion. The blow that was aimed for the jaw struck no higher than the + shoulder. He had willed the blow higher, but the tired muscles had not + been able to obey. And, from the impact of the blow, Tom King himself + reeled back and nearly fell. Once again he strove. This time his punch + missed altogether, and, from absolute weakness, he fell against Sandel and + clinched, holding on to him to save himself from sinking to the floor. + </p> + <p> + King did not attempt to free himself. He had shot his bolt. He was gone. + And Youth had been served. Even in the clinch he could feel Sandel growing + stronger against him. When the referee thrust them apart, there, before + his eyes, he saw Youth recuperate. From instant to instant Sandel grew + stronger. His punches, weak and futile at first, became stiff and + accurate. Tom King's bleared eyes saw the gloved fist driving at his jaw, + and he willed to guard it by interposing his arm. He saw the danger, + willed the act; but the arm was too heavy. It seemed burdened with a + hundredweight of lead. It would not lift itself, and he strove to lift it + with his soul. Then the gloved fist landed home. He experienced a sharp + snap that was like an electric spark, and, simultaneously, the veil of + blackness enveloped him. + </p> + <p> + When he opened his eyes again he was in his corner, and he heard the + yelling of the audience like the roar of the surf at Bondi Beach. A wet + sponge was being pressed against the base of his brain, and Sid Sullivan + was blowing cold water in a refreshing spray over his face and chest. His + gloves had already been removed, and Sandel, bending over him, was shaking + his hand. He bore no ill-will toward the man who had put him out and he + returned the grip with a heartiness that made his battered knuckles + protest. Then Sandel stepped to the centre of the ring and the audience + hushed its pandemonium to hear him accept young Pronto's challenge and + offer to increase the side bet to one hundred pounds. King looked on + apathetically while his seconds mopped the streaming water from him, dried + his face, and prepared him to leave the ring. He felt hungry. It was not + the ordinary, gnawing kind, but a great faintness, a palpitation at the + pit of the stomach that communicated itself to all his body. He remembered + back into the fight to the moment when he had Sandel swaying and tottering + on the hair-line balance of defeat. Ah, that piece of steak would have + done it! He had lacked just that for the decisive blow, and he had lost. + It was all because of the piece of steak. + </p> + <p> + His seconds were half-supporting him as they helped him through the ropes. + He tore free from them, ducked through the ropes unaided, and leaped + heavily to the floor, following on their heels as they forced a passage + for him down the crowded centre aisle. Leaving the dressing-room for the + street, in the entrance to the hall, some young fellow spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + “W'y didn't yuh go in an' get 'im when yuh 'ad 'im?” the young fellow + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, go to hell!” said Tom King, and passed down the steps to the + sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + The doors of the public-house at the corner were swinging wide, and he saw + the lights and the smiling barmaids, heard the many voices discussing the + fight and the prosperous chink of money on the bar. Somebody called to him + to have a drink. He hesitated perceptibly, then refused and went on his + way. + </p> + <p> + He had not a copper in his pocket, and the two-mile walk home seemed very + long. He was certainly getting old. Crossing the Domain, he sat down + suddenly on a bench, unnerved by the thought of the missus sitting up for + him, waiting to learn the outcome of the fight. That was harder than any + knockout, and it seemed almost impossible to face. + </p> + <p> + He felt weak and sore, and the pain of his smashed knuckles warned him + that, even if he could find a job at navvy work, it would be a week before + he could grip a pick handle or a shovel. The hunger palpitation at the pit + of the stomach was sickening. His wretchedness overwhelmed him, and into + his eyes came an unwonted moisture. He covered his face with his hands, + and, as he cried, he remembered Stowsher Bill and how he had served him + that night in the long ago. Poor old Stowsher Bill! He could understand + now why Bill had cried in the dressing-room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's When God Laughs and Other Stories, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN GOD LAUGHS AND OTHER STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 2545-h.htm or 2545-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/4/2545/ + +Produced by Les Bowler, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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