by Jack London
were to go before a justice of the peace and be married. Bert and
Mary were to be the witnesses, and after that the four were to go
to a private room in Barnum's Restaurant for the wedding supper.
That over, Bert and Mary would proceed to a dance at Myrtle Hall,
while Billy and Saxon would take the Eighth Street car to Seventh
and Pine. Honeymoons are infrequent in the working class. The
next morning Billy must be at the stable at his regular hour to
drive his team out.
All the women in the fancy starch room knew it was Saxon's last
day. Many exulted for her, and not a few were envious of her, in
that she had won a husband and to freedom from the suffocating
slavery of the ironing board. Much of bantering she endured; such
was the fate of every girl who married out of the fancy starch
room. But Saxon was too happy to be hurt by the teasing, a great
deal of which was gross, but all of which was good-natured.
In the steam that arose from under her iron, and on the surfaces
of the dainty lawns and muslins that flew under her hands, she
kept visioning herself in the Pine Street cottage; and steadily
she hummed under her breath her paraphrase of the latest popular
song:
"And when I work, and when I work,
I'll always work for Billy."
By three in the afternoon the strain of the piece-workers in the
humid, heated room grew tense. Elderly women gasped and sighed;
the color went out of the cheeks of the young women, their faces
became drawn and dark circles formed under their eyes; but all
held on with weary, unabated speed. The tireless, vigilant
forewoman kept a sharp lookout for incipient hysteria, and once
led a narrow-chested, stoop-shouldered young thing out of the
place in time to prevent a collapse.
Saxon was startled by the wildest scream of terror she had ever
heard. The tense thread of human resolution snapped; wills and
nerves broke down, and a hundred women suspended their irons or
dropped them. It was Mary who had screamed so terribly, and Saxon
saw a strange black animal flapping great claw-like wings and
nestling on Mary's shoulder. With the scream, Mary crouched down,
and the strange creature, darting into the air, fluttered full
into the startled face of a woman at the next board. This woman
promptly screamed and fainted. Into the air again, the flying
thing darted hither and thither, while the shrieking, shrinking
women threw up their arms, tried to run away along the aisles, or
cowered under their ironing boards.
"It's only a bat!" the forewoman shouted. She was furious. "Ain't
you ever seen a bat? It won't eat you!"
But they were ghetto people, and were not to be quieted. Some
woman who could not see the cause of the uproar, out of her
overwrought apprehension raised the cry of fire and precipitated
the panic rush for the doors. All of them were screaming the
stupid, soul-sickening high note of terror, drowning the
forewoman's voice. Saxon had been merely startled at first, but
the screaming panic broke her grip on herself and swept her away.
Though she did not scream, she fled with the rest. When this
horde of crazed women debouched on the next department, those who
worked there joined in the stampede to escape from they knew not
what danger. In ten minutes the laundry was deserted, save for a
few men wandering about with hand grenades in futile search for
the cause of the disturbance.
The forewoman was stout, but indomitable. Swept along half the
length of an aisle by the terror-stricken women, she had broken
her way back through the rout and quickly caught the
light-blinded visitant in a clothes basket.
"Maybe I don't know what God looks like, but take it from me I've
seen a tintype of the devil," Mary gurgled, emotionally
fluttering back and forth between laughter and tears.
But Saxon was angry with herself, for she had been as frightened
as the rest in that wild flight for out-of-doors.
"We're a lot of fools," she said. "It was only a bat. I've heard
about them. They live in the country. They wouldn't hurt a fly.
They can't see in the daytime. That was what was the matter with
this one. It was only a bat."
"Huh, you can't string me," Mary replied. "It was the devil." She
sobbed a moment, and then laughed hysterically again. "Did you
see Mrs. Bergstrom faint? And it only touched her in the face.
Why, it was on my shoulder and touching my bare neck like the
hand of a corpse. And I didn't faint." She laughed again. "I
guess, maybe, I was too scared to faint."
"Come on back," Saxon urged. "We've lost half an hour."
"Not me. I'm goin' home after that, if they fire me. I couldn't
iron for sour apples now, I'm that shaky."
One woman had broken a leg, another an arm, and a number nursed
milder bruises and bruises. No bullying nor entreating of the
forewoman could persuade the women to return to work. They were
too upset and nervous, and only here and there could one be found
brave enough to re-enter the building for the hats and lunch
baskets of the others. Saxon was one of the handful that returned
and worked till six o'clock.
CHAPTER XV
"Why, Bert!--you're squiffed!" Mary cried reproachfully.
The four were at the table in the private room at Barnum's. The
wedding supper, simple enough, but seemingly too expensive to
Saxon, had been eaten. Bert, in his hand a glass of California
red wine, which the management supplied for fifty cents a bottle,
was on his feet endeavoring a speech. His face was flushed; his
black eyes were feverishly bright.
"You've ben drinkin' before you met me," Mary continued. "I can
see it stickin' out all over you."
"Consult an oculist, my dear," he replied. "Bertram is himself
to-night. An' he is here, arisin' to his feet to give the glad
hand to his old pal. Bill, old man, here's to you. It's how-de-do
an' good-bye, I guess. You're a married man now, Bill, an' you
got to keep regular hours. No more runnin' around with the boys.
You gotta take care of yourself, an' get your life insured, an'
take out an accident policy, an' join a buildin' an' loan
society, an' a buryin' association--"
"Now you shut up, Bert," Mary broke in. "You don't talk about
buryin's at weddings. You oughta be ashamed of yourself."
"Whoa, Mary! Back up! I said what I said because I meant it. I
ain't thinkin' what Mary thinks. What I was thinkin'. . . . Let me
tell you what I was thinkin'. I said buryin' association, didn't
I? Well, it was not with the idea of castin' gloom over this
merry gatherin'. Far be it. . . ."
He was so evidently seeking a way out of his predicament, that
Mary tossed her head triumphantly. This acted as a spur to his
reeling wits.
"Let me tell you why," he went on. "Because, Bill, you got such
an all-fired pretty wife, that's why. All the fellows is crazy
over her, an' when they get to runnin' after her, what'll you be
doi
n'? You'll be gettin' busy. And then won't you need a buryin'
association to bury 'em? I just guess yes. That was the
compliment to your good taste in skirts I was tryin' to come
across with when Mary butted in."
His glittering eyes rested for a moment in bantering triumph on
Mary.
"Who says I'm squiffed? Me? Not on your life. I'm seein' all
things in a clear white light. An' I see Bill there, my old
friend Bill. An' I don't see two Bills. I see only one. Bill was
never two-faced in his life. Bill, old man, when I look at you
there in the married harness, I'm sorry--" He ceased abruptly and
turned on Mary. "Now don't go up in the air, old girl. I'm onto
my job. My grandfather was a state senator, and he could spiel
graceful an' pleasin' till the cows come home. So can I.--Bill,
when I look at you, I'm sorry. I repeat, I'm sorry." He glared
challengingly at Mary. "For myself when I look at you an' know
all the happiness you got a hammerlock on. Take it from me,
you're a wise guy, bless the women. You've started well. Keep it
up. Marry 'em all, bless 'em. Bill, here's to you. You're a
Mohegan with a scalplock. An' you got a squaw that is some squaw,
take it from me. Minnehaha, here's to you--to the two of you--an'
to the papooses, too, gosh-dang them!"
He drained the glass suddenly and collapsed in his chair,
blinking his eyes across at the wedded couple while tears
trickled unheeded down his cheeks. Mary's hand went out
soothingly to his, completing his break-down.
"By God, I got a right to cry," he sobbed. "I'm losin' my best
friend, ain't I? It'll never be the same again never. When I
think of the fun, an' scrapes, an' good times Bill an' me has had
together, I could darn near hate you, Saxon, sittin' there with
your hand in his."
"Cheer up, Bert," she laughed gently. "Look at whose hand you are
holding."
"Aw, it's only one of his cryin' jags," Mary said, with a
harshness that her free hand belied as it caressed his hair with
soothing strokes. "Buck up, Bert. Everything's all right. And now
it's up to Bill to say something after your dandy spiel."
Bert recovered himself quickly with another glass of wine.
"Kick in, Bill," he cried. "It's your turn now."
"I'm no hotair artist," Billy grumbled. "What'll I say, Saxon?
They ain't no use tellin' 'em how happy we are. They know that."
"Tell them we're always going to be happy," she said. "And thank
them for all their good wishes, and we both wish them the same.
And we're always going to be together, like old times, the four
of us. And tell them they're invited down to 507 Pine Street next
Sunday for Sunday dinner.--And, Mary, if you want to come
Saturday night you can sleep in the spare bedroom."
"You've told'm yourself, better'n I could." Billy clapped his
hands. "You did yourself proud, an' I guess they ain't much to
add to it, but just the same I'm goin' to pass them a hot one."
He stood up, his hand on his glass. His clear blue eyes under the
dark brows and framed by the dark lashes, seemed a deeper blue,
and accentuated the blondness of hair and skin. The smooth cheeks
were rosy--not with wine, for it was only his second glass--but
with health and joy. Saxon, looking up at him, thrilled with
pride in him, he was so well-dressed, so strong, so handsome, so
clean-looking--her man-boy. And she was aware of pride in
herself, in her woman's desirableness that had won for her so
wonderful a lover.
"Well, Bert an' Mary, here you are at Saxon's and my wedding
supper. We're just goin' to take all your good wishes to heart,
we wish you the same back, and when we say it we mean more than
you think we mean. Saxon an' I believe in tit for tat. So we're
wishin' for the day when the table is turned clear around an'
we're sittin' as guests at your weddin' supper. And then, when
you come to Sunday dinner, you can both stop Saturday night in
the spare bedroom. I guess I was wised up when I furnished it,
eh?"
"I never thought it of you, Billy!" Mary exclaimed. "You're every
hit as raw as Bert. But just the same . . ."
There was a rush of moisture to her eyes. Her voice faltered and
broke. She smiled through her tears at them, then turned to look
at Bert, who put his arm around her and gathered her on to his
knees.
When they left the restaurant, the four walked to Eighth and
Broadway, where they stopped beside the electric car. Bert and
Billy were awkward and silent, oppressed by a strange aloofness.
But Mary embraced Saxon with fond anxiousness.
"It's all right, dear," Mary whispered. "Don't be scared. It's
all right. Think of all the other women in the world."
The conductor clanged the gong, and the two couples separated in
a sudden hubbub of farewell.
"Oh, you Mohegan!" Bert called after, as the car got under way.
"Oh, you Minnehaha!"
"Remember what I said," was Mary's parting to Saxon.
The car stopped at Seventh and Pine, the terminus of the line. It
was only a little over two blocks to the cottage. On the front
steps Billy took the key from his pocket.
"Funny, isn't it?" he said, as the key turned in the lock. "You
an' me. Just you an' me."
While he lighted the lamp in the parlor, Saxon was taking off her
hat. He went into the bedroom and lighted the lamp there, then
turned back and stood in the doorway. Saxon, still unaccountably
fumbling with her hatpins, stole a glance at him. He held out his
arms.
"Now," he said.
She came to him, and in his arms he could feel her trembling.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
The first evening after the marriage night Saxon met Billy at the
door as he came up the front steps. After their embrace, and as
they crossed the parlor hand in hand toward the kitchen, he
filled his lungs through his nostrils with audible satisfaction.
"My, but this house smells good, Saxon! It ain't the coffee--I
can smell that, too. It's the whole house. It smells . . . well, it
just smells good to me, that's all."
He washed and dried himself at the sink, while she heated the
frying pan on the front hole of the stove with the lid off. As he
wiped his hands he watched her keenly, and cried out with
approbation as she dropped the steak in the fryin pan.
"Where'd you learn to cook steak on a dry, hot pan? It's the only
way, but darn few women seem to know about it."
As she took the cover off a second frying pan and stirred the
savory contents with a kitchen knife, he came behind her, passed
his arms under her arm-pits with down-drooping hands upon her
breasts, and bent his head over her shoulder till cheek touched
cheek.
"Um-um-um-m-m! Fried potatoes with onions like mother used to
make. Me for them. Don't they smell good, though! Um-um-m-m-m!"
The pressure of his hands relaxed, and his cheek slid caressingly
past hers as he started to release her. Then his hands cl
osed
down again. She felt his lips on her hair and heard his
advertised inhalation of delight.
"Um-um-m-m-m! Don't you smell good--yourself, though! I never
understood what they meant when they said a girl was sweet. I
know, now. And you're the sweetest I ever knew."
His joy was boundless. When he returned from combing his hair in
the bedroom and sat down at the small table opposite her, he
paused with knife and fork in hand.
"Say, bein' married is a whole lot more than it's cracked up to
be by most married folks. Honest to God, Saxon, we can show 'em a
few. We can give 'em cards and spades an' little casino an' win
out on big casino and the aces. I've got but one kick comin'."
The instant apprehension in her eyes provoked a chuckle from him.
"An' that is that we didn't get married quick enough. Just think.
I've lost a whole week of this."
Her eyes shone with gratitude and happiness, and in her heart she
solemnly pledged herself that never in all their married life
would it be otherwise.
Supper finished, she cleared the table and began washing the
dishes at the sink. When he evinced the intention of wiping them,
she caught him by the lapels of the coat and backed him into a
chair.
"You'll sit right there, if you know what's good for you. Now be
good and mind what I say. Also, you will smoke a cigarette.--No;
you're not going to watch me. There's the morning paper beside
you. And if you don't hurry to read it, I'll be through these
dishes before you've started."
As he smoked and read, she continually glanced across at him from
her work. One thing more, she thought--slippers; and then the
picture of comfort and content would be complete.
Several minutes later Billy put the paper aside with a sigh.
"It's no use," he complained. "I can't read."
"What's the matter?" she teased. "Eyes weak?"
"Nope. They're sore, and there's only one thing to do 'em any
good, an' that's lookin' at you."
"All right, then, baby Billy; I'll be through in a jiffy."
When she had washed the dish towel and scalded out the sink, she
took off her kitchen apron, came to him, and kissed first one eye
and then the other.
"How are they now. Cured?"
"They feel some better already."
She repeated the treatment.
"And now?"
"Still better."
"And now?"
"Almost well."
After he had adjudged them well, he ouched and informed her that
there was still some hurt in the right eye.
In the course of treating it, she cried out as in pain. Billy was
all alarm.
"What is it? What hurt you?"
"My eyes. They're hurting like sixty."
And Billy became physician for a while and she the patient. When
the cure was accomplished, she led him into the parlor, where, by
the open window, they succeeded in occupying the same Morris
chair. It was the most expensive comfort in the house. It had
cost seven dollars and a half, and, though it was grander than
anything she had dreamed of possessing, the extravagance of it
had worried her in a half-guilty way all day.
The salt chill of the air that is the blessing of all the bay
cities after the sun goes down crept in about them. They heard
the switch engines puffing in the railroad yards, and the
rumbling thunder of the Seventh Street local slowing down in its
run from the Mole to stop at West Oakland station. From the
street came the noise of children playing in the summer night,
and from the steps of the house next door the low voices of
gossiping housewives.
"Can you beat it?" Billy murmured. "When I think of that
six-dollar furnished room of mine, it makes me sick to think what
I was missin' all the time. But there's one satisfaction. If I'd
