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

you ought to care," said the old man suddenly. "There's no sense in you wimen folks pestering the boy all the time. Let him alone with his own business, can't you?"

      "Well, ain't we leaving him alone?"

      "No, you ain't—'cept when he ain't here. I don't wonder the boy grabs his hat and skips out when you git to going."

      "Well, what did we say to him now? Tell us what we said to him that was so dreadful."

      "Aw, thunder an' lightnin'!" cried the old man with a sudden great snarl. They seemed to know by this ejaculation that he had emerged in an instant from that place where man endures, and they ended the discussion. The old man continued his breakfast.

      During his walk that morning Hawker visited a certain cascade, a certain lake, and some roads, paths, groves, nooks. Later in the day he made a sketch, choosing an hour when the atmosphere was of a dark blue, like powder smoke in the shade of trees, and the western sky was burning in strips of red. He painted with a wild face, like a man who is killing.

      After supper he and his father strolled under the apple boughs in the orchard and smoked. Once he gestured wearily. "Oh, I guess I'll go back to New York in a few days."

      "Um," replied his father calmly. "All right, William."

      Several days later Hawker accosted his father in the barnyard. "I suppose you think sometimes I don't care so much about you and the folks and the old place any more; but I do."

      "Um," said the old man. "When you goin'?"

      "Where?" asked Hawker, flushing.

      "Back to New York."

      "Why—I hadn't thought much about—— Oh, next week, I guess."

      "Well, do as you like, William. You know how glad me an' mother and the girls are to have you come home with us whenever you can come. You know that. But you must do as you think best, and if you ought to go back to New York now, William, why—do as you think best."

      "Well, my work——" said Hawker.

      From time to time the mother made wondering speech to the sisters. "How much nicer William is now! He's just as good as he can be. There for a while he was so cross and out of sorts. I don't see what could have come over him. But now he's just as good as he can be."

      Hollanden told him, "Come up to the inn more, you fool."

      "I was up there yesterday."

      "Yesterday! What of that? I've seen the time when the farm couldn't hold you for two hours during the day."

      "Go to blazes!"

      "Millicent got a letter from Grace Fanhall the other day."

      "That so?"

      "Yes, she did. Grace wrote—— Say, does that shadow look pure purple to you?"

      "Certainly it does, or I wouldn't paint it so, duffer. What did she write?"

      "Well, if that shadow is pure purple my eyes are liars. It looks a kind of slate colour to me. Lord! if what you fellows say in your pictures is true, the whole earth must be blazing and burning and glowing and——"

      Hawker went into a rage. "Oh, you don't know anything about colour, Hollie. For heaven's sake, shut up, or I'll smash you with the easel."

      "Well, I was going to tell you what Grace wrote in her letter. She said——"

      "Go on."

      "Gimme time, can't you? She said that town was stupid, and that she wished she was back at Hemlock Inn."

      "Oh! Is that all?"

      "Is that all? I wonder what you expected? Well, and she asked to be recalled to you."

      "Yes? Thanks."

      "And that's all. 'Gad, for such a devoted man as you were, your enthusiasm and interest is stupendous."

      The father said to the mother, "Well, William's going back to New York next week."

      "Is he? Why, he ain't said nothing to me about it."

      "Well, he is, anyhow."

      "I declare! What do you s'pose he's going back before September for, John?"

      "How do I know?"

      "Well, it's funny, John. I bet—I bet he's going back so's he can see that girl."

      "He says it's his work."

      CHAPTER XIX.

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      Wrinkles had been peering into the little dry-goods box that acted as a cupboard. "There are only two eggs and half a loaf of bread left," he announced brutally.

      "Heavens!" said Warwickson from where he lay smoking on the bed. He spoke in a dismal voice. This tone, it is said, had earned him his popular name of Great Grief.

      From different points of the compass Wrinkles looked at the little cupboard with a tremendous scowl, as if he intended thus to frighten the eggs into becoming more than two, and the bread into becoming a loaf. "Plague take it!" he exclaimed.

      "Oh, shut up, Wrinkles!" said Grief from the bed.

      Wrinkles sat down with an air austere and virtuous. "Well, what are we going to do?" he demanded of the others.

      Grief, after swearing, said: "There, that's right! Now you're happy. The holy office of the inquisition! Blast your buttons, Wrinkles, you always try to keep us from starving peacefully! It is two hours before dinner, anyhow, and——"

      "Well, but what are you going to do?" persisted Wrinkles.

      Pennoyer, with his head afar down, had been busily scratching at a pen-and-ink drawing. He looked up from his board to utter a plaintive optimism. "The Monthly Amazement will pay me to-morrow. They ought to. I've waited over three months now. I'm going down there to-morrow, and perhaps I'll get it."

      His friends listened with airs of tolerance. "Oh, no doubt, Penny, old man." But at last Wrinkles giggled pityingly. Over on the bed Grief croaked deep down in his throat. Nothing was said for a long time thereafter.

      The crash of the New York streets came faintly to this room.

      Occasionally one could hear the tramp of feet in the intricate corridors of the begrimed building which squatted, slumbering, and old, between two exalted commercial structures which would have had to bend afar down to perceive it. The northward march of the city's progress had happened not to overturn this aged structure, and it huddled there, lost and forgotten, while the cloud-veering towers strode on.

      Meanwhile the first shadows of dusk came in at the blurred windows of the room. Pennoyer threw down his pen and tossed his drawing over on the wonderful heap of stuff that hid the table. "It's too dark to work." He lit a pipe and walked about, stretching his shoulders like a man whose labour was valuable.

      When the dusk came fully the youths grew apparently sad. The solemnity of the gloom seemed to make them ponder. "Light the gas, Wrinkles," said Grief fretfully.

      The flood of orange light showed clearly the dull walls lined with sketches, the tousled bed in one corner, the masses of boxes and trunks in another, a little dead stove, and the wonderful table. Moreover, there were wine-coloured draperies flung in some places, and on a shelf, high up, there were plaster casts, with dust in the creases. A long stove-pipe wandered off in the wrong direction and then turned impulsively toward a hole in the wall. There were some elaborate cobwebs on the ceiling.

      "Well, let's eat," said Grief.

      "Eat," said Wrinkles, with a jeer; "I told you there was only two eggs and a little bread left. How are we going to eat?"

      Again brought face to face with this problem, and at the hour for dinner, Pennoyer and Grief thought profoundly. "Thunder and turf!" Grief finally announced as the result