Maggie: A Girl of the Streets (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Stephen Crane

the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight.

      The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore. They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair.

      A tiny spectator was suddenly agitated.

      “Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it! Here comes yer fader,” he yelled.

      The circle of little boys instantly parted. They drew away and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen. The two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago, did not hear the warning.

      Up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes. He was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe.

      As he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he roared an oath and advanced upon the rolling fighters.

      “Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out, you damned disorderly brat.”

      He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. The boy Billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. He made a furious effort and disentangled himself from Jimmie. He tottered away, damning.

      Jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father, began to curse him. His parent kicked him. “Come home, now,” he cried, “an’ stop yer jawin’, er I’ll lam the everlasting head off yehs.”

      They departed. The man paced placidly along with the apple-wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly, for he felt that it was degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father.

Chapter II

      EVENTUALLY THEY ENTERED INTO A DARK REGION WHERE, FROM A CAREENING building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of babies to the street and the gutter. A wind of early autumn raised yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows. Long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. In all unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. In the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat stupidly in the way of vehicles. Formidable women, with uncombed hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or screamed in frantic quarrels. Withered persons, in curious postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure corners. A thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the street. The building quivered and creaked from the weight of humanity stamping about in its bowels.

      A small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the crowded ways. He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his wrinkled, bare legs.

      The little girl cried out: “Ah, Tommie, come ahn. Dere’s Jimmie and fader. Don’t be a-pullin’ me back.”

      She jerked the baby’s arm impatiently. He fell on his face, roaring. With a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they went on. With the obstinacy of his order, he protested against being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavors to keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile orations.

      As the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy, drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries. “Ah, Jimmie, youse bin fightin’ agin.”

      The urchin swelled disdainfully.

      “Ah, what deh hell, Mag. See?”

      The little girl upbraided him, “Youse allus fightin’, Jimmie, an’ yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead, an’ it’s like we’ll all get a poundin’.”

      She began to weep. The babe threw back his head and roared at his prospects.

      “Ah, what deh hell!” cried Jimmie. “Shut up er I’ll smack yer mout’. See?”

      As his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore and struck her. The little girl reeled and, recovering herself, burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. As she slowly retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. The father heard and turned about.

      “Stop that, Jim, d’yeh hear? Leave yer sister alone on the street. It’s like I can never beat any sense into yer damned wooden head.”

      The urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and continued his attacks. The babe bawled tremendously, protesting with great violence. During his sister’s hasty manoeuvres, he was dragged by the arm.

      Finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways. They crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls. At last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room in which a large woman was rampant.

      She stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table. As the father and children filed in she peered at them.

      “Eh, what? Been fightin’ agin, by Gawd!” She threw herself upon Jimmie. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle the babe, Tommie, was knocked down. He protested with his usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against a table leg.

      The mother’s massive shoulders heaved with anger. Grasping the urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled. She dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water, began to scrub his lacerated face with it. Jimmie screamed in pain and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms.

      The babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions like that of a woman at a tragedy. The father, with a newly-ladened pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove. Jimmie’s cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife:

      “Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary? Yer allus poundin’ ‘im. When I come nights I can’t git no rest ‘cause yer allus poundin’ a kid. Let up, d’yeh hear? Don’t be allus poundin’ a kid.”

      The woman’s operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence. At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping.

      The wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a chieftain-like stride approached her husband.

      “Ho,” she said, with a great grunt of contempt. “An’ what in the devil are you stickin’ your nose for?”

      The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs carefully beneath him.

      The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the back part of the stove.

      “Go teh hell,” he murmured, tranquilly.

      The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband’s eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson. She began to howl.

      He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards.

      “You’ve been drinkin’, Mary,” he said. “You’d better let up on the bot’, ol’ woman, or you’ll git done.”

      “You’re a liar. I ain’t had a drop,” she roared in reply.

      They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other’s souls with frequence.

      The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working in his excitement.

      The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay.

      “Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?” she whispered timidly.

      “Not a damn bit! See?” growled the little boy.

      “Will I wash deh blood?”

      “Naw!”