The Third Violet

by Stephen Crane

"Hello, Splutter!" he cried. "You are in a hurry."

  "That you, Billie?" said the girl, peering, for the hallways of this oldbuilding remained always in a dungeonlike darkness.

  "Yes, it is. Where are you going at such a headlong gait?"

  "Up to see the boys. I've got a bottle of wine and some--some pickles,you know. I'm going to make them let me dine with them to-night. Comingback, Billie?"

  "Why, no, I don't expect to."

  He moved then accidentally in front of the light that sifted through thedull, gray panes of a little window.

  "Oh, cracky!" cried the girl; "how fine you are, Billie! Going to acoronation?"

  "No," said Hawker, looking seriously over his collar and down at hisclothes. "Fact is--er--well, I've got to make a call."

  "A call--bless us! And are you really going to wear those gray glovesyou're holding there, Billie? Say, wait until you get around the corner.They won't stand 'em on this street."

  "Oh, well," said Hawker, depreciating the gloves--"oh, well."

  The girl looked up at him. "Who you going to call on?"

  "Oh," said Hawker, "a friend."

  "Must be somebody most extraordinary, you look so dreadfully correct.Come back, Billie, won't you? Come back and dine with us."

  "Why, I--I don't believe I can."

  "Oh, come on! It's fun when we all dine together. Won't you, Billie?"

  "Well, I----"

  "Oh, don't be so stupid!" The girl stamped her foot and flashed her eyesat him angrily.

  "Well, I'll see--I will if I can--I can't tell----" He left her ratherprecipitately.

  Hawker eventually appeared at a certain austere house where he rang thebell with quite nervous fingers.

  But she was not at home. As he went down the steps his eyes were asthose of a man whose fortunes have tumbled upon him. As he walked downthe street he wore in some subtle way the air of a man who has beengrievously wronged. When he rounded the corner, his lips were setstrangely, as if he were a man seeking revenge.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  "It's just right," said Grief.

  "It isn't quite cool enough," said Wrinkles.

  "Well, I guess I know the proper temperature for claret."

  "Well, I guess you don't. If it was buttermilk, now, you would know, butyou can't tell anything about claret."

  Florinda ultimately decided the question. "It isn't quite cool enough,"she said, laying her hand on the bottle. "Put it on the window ledge,Grief."

  "Hum! Splutter, I thought you knew more than----"

  "Oh, shut up!" interposed the busy Pennoyer from a remote corner. "Whois going after the potato salad? That's what I want to know. Who isgoing?"

  "Wrinkles," said Grief.

  "Grief," said Wrinkles.

  "There," said Pennoyer, coming forward and scanning a late work with aneye of satisfaction. "There's the three glasses and the little tumbler;and then, Grief, you will have to drink out of a mug."

  "I'll be double-dyed black if I will!" cried Grief. "I wouldn't drinkclaret out of a mug to save my soul from being pinched!"

  "You duffer, you talk like a bloomin' British chump on whom the sunnever sets! What do you want?"

  "Well, there's enough without that--what's the matter with you? Threeglasses and the little tumbler."

  "Yes, but if Billie Hawker comes----"

  "Well, let him drink out of the mug, then. He----"

  "No, he won't," said Florinda suddenly. "I'll take the mug myself."

  "All right, Splutter," rejoined Grief meekly. "I'll keep the mug. But,still, I don't see why Billie Hawker----"

  "I shall take the mug," reiterated Florinda firmly.

  "But I don't see why----"

  "Let her alone, Grief," said Wrinkles. "She has decided that it isheroic. You can't move her now."

  "Well, who is going for the potato salad?" cried Pennoyer again. "That'swhat I want to know."

  "Wrinkles," said Grief.

  "Grief," said Wrinkles.

  "Do you know," remarked Florinda, raising her head from where she hadbeen toiling over the _spaghetti_, "I don't care so much for BillieHawker as I did once?" Her sleeves were rolled above the elbows of herwonderful arms, and she turned from the stove and poised a fork as ifshe had been smitten at her task with this inspiration.

  There was a short silence, and then Wrinkles said politely, "No."

  "No," continued Florinda, "I really don't believe I do." She suddenlystarted. "Listen! Isn't that him coming now?"

  The dull trample of a step could be heard in some distant corridor, butit died slowly to silence.

  "I thought that might be him," she said, turning to the _spaghetti_again.

  "I hope the old Indian comes," said Pennoyer, "but I don't believe hewill. Seems to me he must be going to see----"

  "Who?" asked Florinda.

  "Well, you know, Hollanden and he usually dine together when they areboth in town."

  Florinda looked at Pennoyer. "I know, Penny. You must have thought I wasremarkably clever not to understand all your blundering. But I don'tcare so much. Really I don't."

  "Of course not," assented Pennoyer.

  "Really I don't."

  "Of course not."

  "Listen!" exclaimed Grief, who was near the door. "There he comes now."Somebody approached, whistling an air from "Traviata," which rang loudand clear, and low and muffled, as the whistler wound among theintricate hallways. This air was as much a part of Hawker as his coat.The _spaghetti_ had arrived at a critical stage. Florinda gave it hercomplete attention.

  When Hawker opened the door he ceased whistling and said gruffly,"Hello!"

  "Just the man!" said Grief. "Go after the potato salad, will you,Billie? There's a good boy! Wrinkles has refused."

  "He can't carry the salad with those gloves," interrupted Florinda,raising her eyes from her work and contemplating them with displeasure.

  "Hang the gloves!" cried Hawker, dragging them from his hands andhurling them at the divan. "What's the matter with you, Splutter?"

  Pennoyer said, "My, what a temper you are in, Billie!"

  "I am," replied Hawker. "I feel like an Apache. Where do you get thisaccursed potato salad?"

  "In Second Avenue. You know where. At the old place."

  "No, I don't!" snapped Hawker.

  "Why----"

  "Here," said Florinda, "I'll go." She had already rolled down hersleeves and was arraying herself in her hat and jacket.

  "No, you won't," said Hawker, filled with wrath. "I'll go myself."

  "We can both go, Billie, if you are so bent," replied the girl in aconciliatory voice.

  "Well, come on, then. What are you standing there for?"

  When these two had departed, Wrinkles said: "Lordie! What's wrong withBillie?"

  "He's been discussing art with some pot-boiler," said Grief, speakingas if this was the final condition of human misery.

  "No, sir," said Pennoyer. "It's something connected with the nowcelebrated violets."

  Out in the corridor Florinda said, "What--what makes you so ugly,Billie?"

  "Why, I am not ugly, am I?"

  "Yes, you are--ugly as anything."

  Probably he saw a grievance in her eyes, for he said, "Well, I don'twant to be ugly." His tone seemed tender. The halls were intensely dark,and the girl placed her hand on his arm. As they rounded a turn in thestairs a straying lock of her hair brushed against his temple. "Oh!"said Florinda, in a low voice.

  "We'll get some more claret," observed Hawker musingly. "And some cognacfor the coffee. And some cigarettes. Do you think of anything more,Splutter?"

  As they came from the shop of the illustrious purveyors of potato saladin Second Avenue, Florinda cried anxiously, "Here, Billie, you let mecarry that!"

  "What infernal nonsense!" said Hawker, flushing. "Certainly not!"

  "Well," protested Florinda, "it might soil your gloves somehow."

  "In heaven's name, what if it does? Say, young woman, do you think I amone of these cholly
boys?"

  "No, Billie; but then, you know----"

  "Well, if you don't take me for some kind of a Willie, give us peace onthis blasted glove business!"

  "I didn't mean----"

  "Well, you've been intimating that I've got the only pair of gray glovesin the universe, but you are wrong. There are several pairs, and theseneed not be preserved as unique in history."

  "They're not gray. They're----"

  "They are gray! I suppose your distinguished ancestors in Ireland didnot educate their families in the matter of gloves, and so you are notexpected to----"

  "Billie!"

  "You are not expected to believe that people wear gloves only in coldweather, and then you expect to see mittens."

  On the stairs, in the darkness, he suddenly exclaimed, "Here, look out,or you'll fall!" He reached for her arm, but she evaded him. Later hesaid again: "Look out, girl! What makes you stumble around so? Here,give me the bottle of wine. I can carry it all right. There--now can youmanage?"

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  "Penny," said Grief, looking across the table at his friend, "if a manthinks a heap of two violets, how much would he think of a thousandviolets?"

  "Two into a thousand goes five hundred times, you fool!" said Pennoyer."I would answer your question if it were not upon a forbidden subject."

  In the distance Wrinkles and Florinda were making Welsh rarebits.

  "Hold your tongues!" said Hawker. "Barbarians!"

  "Grief," said Pennoyer, "if a man loves a woman better than the wholeuniverse, how much does he love the whole universe?"

  "Gawd knows," said Grief piously. "Although it ill befits me to answeryour question."

  Wrinkles and Florinda came with the Welsh rarebits, very triumphant."There," said Florinda, "soon as these are finished I must go home. Itis after eleven o'clock.--Pour the ale, Grief."

  At a later time, Purple Sanderson entered from the world. He hung up hishat and cast a look of proper financial dissatisfaction at the remnantsof the feast. "Who has been----"

  "Before you breathe, Purple, you graceless scum, let me tell you that wewill stand no reference to the two violets here," said Pennoyer.

  "What the----"

  "Oh, that's all right, Purple," said Grief, "but you were going to saysomething about the two violets, right then. Weren't you, now, you oldbat?"

  Sanderson grinned expectantly. "What's the row?" said he.

  "No row at all," they told him. "Just an agreement to keep you fromchattering obstinately about the two violets."

  "What two violets?"

  "Have a rarebit, Purple," advised Wrinkles, "and never mind thosemaniacs."

  "Well, what is this business about two violets?"

  "Oh, it's just some dream. They gibber at anything."

  "I think I know," said Florinda, nodding. "It is something that concernsBillie Hawker."

  Grief and Pennoyer scoffed, and Wrinkles said: "You know nothing aboutit, Splutter. It doesn't concern Billie Hawker at all."

  "Well, then, what is he looking sideways for?" cried Florinda.

  Wrinkles reached for his guitar, and played a serenade, "The silver moonis shining----"

  "Dry up!" said Pennoyer.

  Then Florinda cried again, "What does he look sideways for?"

  Pennoyer and Grief giggled at the imperturbable Hawker, who destroyedrarebit in silence.

  "It's you, is it, Billie?" said Sanderson. "You are in this two-violetbusiness?"

  "I don't know what they're talking about," replied Hawker.

  "Don't you, honestly?" asked Florinda.

  "Well, only a little."

  "There!" said Florinda, nodding again. "I knew he was in it."

  "He isn't in it at all," said Pennoyer and Grief.

  Later, when the cigarettes had become exhausted, Hawker volunteered togo after a further supply, and as he arose, a question seemed to come tothe edge of Florinda's lips and pend there. The moment that the door wasclosed upon him she demanded, "What is that about the two violets?"

  "Nothing at all," answered Pennoyer, apparently much aggrieved. He satback with an air of being a fortress of reticence.

  "Oh, go on--tell me! Penny, I think you are very mean.--Grief, you tellme!"

  "The silver moon is shining; Oh, come, my love, to me! My heart----"

  "Be still, Wrinkles, will you?--What was it, Grief? Oh, go ahead andtell me!"

  "What do you want to know for?" cried Grief, vastly exasperated. "You'vegot more blamed curiosity---- It isn't anything at all, I keep saying toyou."

  "Well, I know it is," said Florinda sullenly, "or you would tell me."

  When Hawker brought the cigarettes, Florinda smoked one, and thenannounced, "Well, I must go now."

  "Who is going to take you home, Splutter?"

  "Oh, anyone," replied Florinda.

  "I tell you what," said Grief, "we'll throw some poker hands, and theone who wins will have the distinguished honour of conveying MissSplutter to her home and mother."

  Pennoyer and Wrinkles speedily routed the dishes to one end of thetable. Grief's fingers spun the halves of a pack of cards together withthe pleased eagerness of a good player. The faces grew solemn with thegambling solemnity. "Now, you Indians," said Grief, dealing, "a draw,you understand, and then a show-down."

  Florinda leaned forward in her chair until it was poised on two legs.The cards of Purple Sanderson and of Hawker were faced toward her.Sanderson was gravely regarding two pair--aces and queens. Hawkerscanned a little pair of sevens. "They draw, don't they?" she said toGrief.

  "Certainly," said Grief. "How many, Wrink?"

  "Four," replied Wrinkles, plaintively.

  "Gimme three," said Pennoyer.

  "Gimme one," said Sanderson.

  "Gimme three," said Hawker. When he picked up his hand again Florinda'schair was tilted perilously. She saw another seven added to the littlepair. Sanderson's draw had not assisted him.

  "Same to the dealer," said Grief. "What you got, Wrink?"

  "Nothing," said Wrinkles, exhibiting it face upward on the table."Good-bye, Florinda."

  "Well, I've got two small pair," ventured Pennoyer hopefully. "Beat'em?"

  "No good," said Sanderson. "Two pair--aces up."

  "No good," said Hawker. "Three sevens."

  "Beats me," said Grief. "Billie, you are the fortunate man. Heaven guideyou in Third Avenue!"

  Florinda had gone to the window. "Who won?" she asked, wheeling aboutcarelessly.

  "Billie Hawker."

  "What! Did he?" she said in surprise.

  "Never mind, Splutter. I'll win sometime," said Pennoyer. "Me too,"cried Grief. "Good night, old girl!" said Wrinkles. They crowded in thedoorway. "Hold on to Billie. Remember the two steps going up," Pennoyercalled intelligently into the Stygian blackness. "Can you see allright?"

  * * * * *

  Florinda lived in a flat with fire-escapes written all over the front ofit. The street in front was being repaired. It had been said by imbecileresidents of the vicinity that the paving was never allowed to remaindown for a sufficient time to be invalided by the tramping millions, butthat it was kept perpetually stacked in little mountains through theunceasing vigilance of a virtuous and heroic city government, whichinsisted that everything should be repaired. The alderman for thedistrict had sometimes asked indignantly of his fellow-members why thisstreet had not been repaired, and they, aroused, had at once ordered itto be repaired. Moreover, shopkeepers, whose stables were adjacent,placed trucks and other vehicles strategically in the darkness. Intothis tangled midnight Hawker conducted Florinda. The great avenue behindthem was no more than a level stream of yellow light, and the distantmerry bells might have been boats floating down it. Grim loneliness hungover the uncouth shapes in the street which was being repaired.

  "Billie," said the girl suddenly, "what makes you so mean to me?"

  A peaceful citizen emerged from behind a pile of _debris_, but he mightnot have been a peace
ful citizen, so the girl clung to Hawker.

  "Why, I'm not mean to you, am I?"

  "Yes," she answered. As they stood on the steps of the flat ofinnumerable fire-escapes she slowly turned and looked up at him. Herface was of a strange pallour in this darkness, and her eyes were aswhen the moon shines in a lake of the hills.

  He returned her glance. "Florinda!" he cried, as if enlightened, andgulping suddenly at something in his throat. The girl studied the stepsand moved from side to side, as do the guilty ones in countryschoolhouses. Then she went slowly into the flat.

  There was a little red lamp hanging on a pile of stones to warn peoplethat the street was being repaired.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  "I'll get my check from the Gamin on Saturday," said Grief. "They boughtthat string of comics."

  "Well, then, we'll arrange the present funds to last until Saturdaynoon," said Wrinkles. "That gives us quite a lot. We can have a _tabled'hote_ on Friday night."

  However, the cashier of the Gamin office looked under his respectablebrass wiring and said: "Very sorry, Mr.--er--Warwickson, but our pay-dayis Monday. Come around any time after ten."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter," said Grief.

  When he plunged into the den his visage flamed with rage. "Don't get mycheck until Monday morning, any time after ten!" he yelled, and flung aportfolio of mottled green into the danger zone of the casts.

  "Thunder!" said Pennoyer, sinking at once into a profound despair