XIII
AT A CERTAIN TIME Kelcey discovered that some
young men who stood in the cinders between a brick wall and the
pavement, and near the side-door of a corner saloon, knew more
about life than other people. They used to lean there smoking and
chewing, and comment upon events and persons. They knew the
neighborhood extremely well. They debated upon small typical things
that transpired before them until they had extracted all the
information that existence contained. They sometimes inaugurated
little fights with foreigners or well-dressed men. It was here that
Sapristi Glielmi, the pedler, stabbed Pete Brady to death, for
which he got a life-sentence. Each patron of the saloon was closely
scrutinized as he entered the place. Sometimes they used to throng
upon the heels of a man and in at the bar assert that he had asked
them in to drink. When he objected, they would claim with one voice
that it was too deep an insult and gather about to thrash him. When
they had caught chance customers and absolute strangers, the
barkeeper had remained in stolid neutrality, ready to serve one or
seven, but two or three times they had encountered the wrong men.
Finally, the proprietor had come out one morning and told them, in
the fearless way of his class, that their pastime must cease. “It
quits right here! See? Right here! Th’ nex’ time yeh try t’ work
it, I come with th’ bung-starter,as an’
th’ mugs I miss with it git pulled. See? It quits!” Infrequently,
however, men did ask them in to drink.
The policeman of that beat grew dignified and
shrewd whenever he approached this corner. Sometimes he stood with
his hands behind his back and cautiously conversed with them. It
was understood on both sides that it was a good thing to be
civil.
In winter this band, a trifle diminished in
numbers, huddled in their old coats and stamped little flat places
in the snow, their faces turned always toward the changing life in
the streets. In the summer they became more lively. Sometimes,
then, they walked out to the curb to look up and down the street.
Over in a trampled vacant lot, surrounded by high tenement-houses,
there was a sort of a den among some bowlders. An old truck was
made to form a shelter. The small hoodlums of that vicinity all
avoided the spot. So many of them had been thrashed upon being
caught near it. It was the summertime lounging-place of the band
from the corner.
They were all too clever to work. Some of them had
worked, but these used their experiences as stores from which to
draw tales. They were like veterans with their wars. One lad in
particular used to recount how he whipped his employer, the
proprietor of a large grain and feed establishment. He described
his victim’s features and form and clothes with minute exactness.
He bragged of his wealth and social position. It had been a proud
moment of the lad’s life. He was like a savage who had killed a
great chief.
Their feeling for contemporaneous life was one of
contempt. Their philosophy taught that in a large part the whole
thing was idle and a great bore. With fine scorn they sneered at
the futility of it. Work was done by men who had not the courage to
stand still and let the skies clap together if they willed.
The vast machinery of the popular law indicated to
them that there were people in the world who wished to remain
quiet. They awaited the moment when they could prove to them that a
riotous upheaval, a cloud-burst of destruction would be a delicious
thing. They thought of their fingers buried in the lives of these
people. They longed dimly for a time when they could run through
decorous streets with crash and roar of war, an army of revenge for
pleasures long possessed by others, a wild sweeping compensation
for their years without crystal and gilt, women and wine. This
thought slumbered in them, as the image of Rome might have lain
small in the hearts of the barbarians.
Kelcey respected these youths so much that he
ordinarily used the other side of the street. He could not go near
to them, because if a passer-by minded his own business he was a
disdainful prig and had insulted them; if he showed that he was
aware of them they were likely to resent his not minding his own
business and prod him into a fight if the opportunity were good.
Kelcey longed for their acquaintance and friendship, for with it
came social safety and ease; they were respected so
universally.
Once in another street Fidsey Corcoran was whipped
by a short, heavy man. Fidsey picked himself up, and in the fury of
defeat hurled pieces of brick at his opponent. The short man dodged
with skill and then pursued Fidsey for over a block. Sometimes he
got near enough to punch him. Fidsey raved in maniacal fury. The
moment the short man would attempt to resume his own affairs,
Fidsey would turn upon him again, tears and blood upon his face,
with the lashed rage of a vanquished animal. The short man used to
turn about, swear madly, and make little dashes. Fidsey always ran
and then returned as pursuit ceased. The short man apparently
wondered if this maniac was ever going to allow him to finish
whipping him. He looked helplessly up and down the street. People
were there who knew Fidsey, and they remonstrated with him; but he
continued to confront the short man, gibbering like a wounded ape,
using all the eloquence of the street in his wild oaths.
Finally the short man was exasperated to black
fury. He decided to end the fight. With low snarls, ominous as
death, he plunged at Fidsey.
Kelcey happened there then. He grasped the short
man’s shoulder. He cried out in the peculiar whine of the man who
interferes. “Oh, hol’ on! Yeh don’t wanta hit ‘im any more! Yeh’ve
done enough to ’im now! Leave ’im be!”
The short man wrenched and tugged. He turned his
face until his teeth were almost at Kelcey’s cheek: “Le’ go me! Le’
go me, you —” The rest of his sentence was screamed curses.
Kelcey’s face grew livid from fear, but he somehow
managed to keep his grip. Fidsey, with but an instant’s pause,
plunged into the new fray.
They beat the short man. They forced him against a
high board-fence where for a few seconds their blows sounded upon
his head in swift thuds. A moment later Fidsey descried a running
policeman. He made off, fleet as a shadow. Kelcey noted his going.
He ran after him.
Three or four blocks away they halted. Fidsey said:
“I’d ‘a licked dat big stuff in ’bout a minute more,” and wiped the
blood from his eyes.
At the gang’s corner, they asked: “Who soaked yeh,
Fidsey?” His description was burning. Everybody laughed. “Where is
’e now?” Later they began to question Kelcey. He recited a tale in
which he allowed himself to appear prominent and redoubtable. They
looked at him then as if they thought he might be quite a
man.
Once when the little old woman was going out to buy
something for her son’s supper, she discovered him standing at the
side-door of the saloon engaged intimately with Fidsey and the
others. She slunk away, for she understood that it would be a
terrible thing to confront him and his pride there with youths who
were superior to mothers.
When he arrived home he threw down his hat with a
weary sigh, as if he had worked long hours, but she attacked him
before he had time to complete the falsehood. He listened to her
harangue with a curled lip. In defence he merely made a gesture of
supreme exasperation. She never understood the advanced things in
life. He felt the hopelessness of ever making her comprehend. His
mother was not modern.