Stephen Crane - Ultimate Collection: 200+ Novels, Short Stories & Poems. Stephen Crane

a word. A moment later he entered. His eye comprehended the room in a frightened glance.

      His mother sat gazing out at the opposite walls and windows. She was leaning her head upon the back of the chair. Her face was overspread with a singular pallor, but the glance of her eyes was strong, and the set of her lips was tranquil.

      He felt an unspeakable thrill of thanksgiving at seeing her seated there calmly.

      ‘Why, mother, they said yeh was sick,’ he cried, going toward her impetuously. ‘What’s th’ matter?’

      She smiled at him.

      ‘Oh, it ain’t nothin’! I on’y got kinda dizzy, that’s all.’

      Her voice was sober, and had the ring of vitality in it.

      He noted her commonplace air. There was no alarm or pain in her tones, but the misgivings of the street, the prophetic twinges of his nerves, made him still hesitate.

      ‘Well—are you sure it ain’t? They scared me ‘bout t’ death.’

      ‘No, it ain’t anything, o’ny some sorta dizzy feelin’. I fell down b’hind th’ stove. Missis Calahan, she came an’ picked me up. I must ‘a laid there fer quite a while. Th’ doctor said he guessed I’d be all right in a couple ‘a hours. I don’t feel nothin’!’

      Kelcey heaved a great sigh of relief.

      ‘Lord, I was scared!’ He began to beam joyously, since he was escaped from his fright. ‘Why, I couldn’t think what had happened,’ he told her.

      ‘Well, it ain’t nothin’,’ she said.

      He stood about awkwardly, keeping his eyes fastened upon her in a sort of surprise, as if he had expected to discover that she had vanished. The reaction from his panic was a thrill of delicious contentment. He took a chair and sat down near her, but presently he jumped up to ask:

      ‘There ain’t nothin’ I can get for yeh, is ther?’

      He looked at her eagerly. In his eyes shone love and joy. If it were not for the shame of it, he would have called her endearing names.

      ‘No, ther ain’t nothin’,’ she answered. Presently she continued, in a conversational way: ‘Yeh ain’t found no work yit, have yeh?’

      The shadow of his past fell upon him then, and he became suddenly morose. At last he spoke in a sentence that was a vow, a declaration of change.

      ‘No, I ain’t, but I’m going t’ hunt fer it hard, you bet.’

      She understood from his tone that he was making peace with her. She smiled at him gladly.

      ‘Yer a good boy, George!’ A rediance from the stars lit her face.

      Presently she asked:

      ‘D’ yeh think yer old boss would take yeh on ag’in if I went t’ see him?’

      ‘No,’ said Kelcey at once. ‘It wouldn’t do no good! They got all th’ men they want. There ain’t no room there. It wouldn’t do no good.’ He ceased to beam for a moment as he thought of certain disclosures. ‘I’m goin’ t’ try to git work everywheres. I’m going t’ make a wild break t’ get a job, an’ if there’s one anywheres I’ll get it.’

      She smiled at him again.

      ‘That’s right, George!’

      When it came supper-time he dragged her in her chair over to the table, and then scurried to and fro to prepare a meal for her. She laughed gleefully at him. He was awkward and densely ignorant. He exaggerated his helplessness sometimes until she was obliged to lean back in her chair to laugh. Afterward they sat by the window. Her hand rested upon his hair.

      CHAPTER XVI

       Table of Contents

      When Kelcey went to borrow money from old Bleecker, Jones and the others, he discovered that he was below them in social position. Old Bleecker said gloomily that he did not see how he could loan money at that time. When Jones asked him to have a drink, his tone was careless.

      O’Connor recited at length some bewildering financial troubles of his own. In them all he saw that something had been reversed. They remained silent upon many occasions when they might have grunted in sympathy for him.

      As he passed along the street near his home he perceived Fidsey Corcoran and another of the gang. They made eloquent signs.

      ‘Are yeh wid us?’

      He stopped and looked at them.

      ‘What’s wrong with yeh?’

      ‘Are yeh wid us er not?’ demanded Fidsey. ‘New barkeep’! Big can! We got it over in d’ lot. Big can, I tell yeh.’

      He drew a picture in the air, so to speak, with his enthusiastic fingers.

      Kelcey turned dejectedly homeward.

      ‘Oh, I guess not, this roun’.’

      ‘What’s d’ matter wi’che?’ said Fidsey. Yer gittin’ t’ be a reg’lar willie! Come ahn, I tell yeh! Youse gits one smoke at d’ can b’cause yeh b’longs t’ d’ gang, an’ yeh don’t wanta give it up widout er scrap! See? Some udder john ‘ll get yer smoke. Come ahn!’

      When they arrived at the place among the boulders in the vacant lot, one of the band had a huge and battered tin can tilted afar up. His throat worked convulsively. He was watched keenly and anxiously by five or six others. Their eyes followed carefully each fraction of distance that the can was lifted. They were very silent.

      Fidsey burst out violently as he perceived what was in progress:

      ‘Heh, Tim, yeh big sojer, let go d’ can! What ‘a yeh tink! Wese er in dis! Le’ go dat!’

      He who was drinking made several angry protesting contortions of his throat. Then he put down the can and swore.

      ‘Who’s a big sojer? I ain’t gittin’ more’n me own smoke! Yer too bloomin’ swift I Ye’d tink yeh was d’ on’y mug what owned dis can! Close yer face while I gits me smoke!’

      He took breath for a moment, and then returned the can to its tilted position.

      Fidsey went to him and worried and clamoured. He interfered so seriously with the action of drinking that the other was obliged to release the can again for fear of choking.

      Fidsey grabbed it, and glanced swiftly at the contents.

      ‘Dere! Dat’s what I was hollerin’ at! Lookut d’ beer! Not ‘nough t’ wet yer t’roat! Yehs can’t have notin’ on d’ level wid youse damn’ tanks! Youse was a reg’lar resevoiy, Tim Connigan! Look what yeh lei us! Ah, say, youse was a dandy! What ‘a yeh tink we ah? Willies? Don’ we want no smoke? Say, lookut dat can! It’s drier’n hell! What ‘a yeh tink?’

      Tim glanced in at the beer. Then he said:

      ‘Well, d’ mug what come b’fore me, he on’y lef’ me dat much. Blue Billie, he done d’ swallerin’! I on’y had a tas’e!’

      Blue Billie, from his seat near, called out in wrathful protest:

      ‘Yeh lie, Tim. I never had more’n a mouf-ful!’ An inspiration evidently came to him then, for his countenance suddenly brightened, and, arising, he went toward the can. ‘I ain’t had me reg’lar smoke yit! Guess I come in aheader Fidsey, don t I?’

      Fidsey, with a sardonic smile, swung the can behind him.

      ‘I guess nit! Not dis minnet! Youse hadger smoke. If yeh ain’t, yeh don’t git none. See?’

      Blue Billie confronted Fidsey determinedly.

      ‘D’ ‘ell