Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  Trescott took the first opportunity to express to him his concern over the affair, but when the subject of the disaster was mentioned, old Eldridge, to the doctor’s great surprise, actually chuckled long and deeply. “Oh, well, look-a-here,” he said. “I never was so much in love with them there damn curls. The curls was purty — yes — but then I’d a darn sight rather see boys look more like boys than like two little wax figgers. An’, ye know, the little cusses like it themselves. They never took no stock in all this washin’ an’ combin’ an’ fixin’ an’ goin’ to church an’ paradin’ an’ showin’ off. They stood it because they were told to. That’s all. Of course this here Neel-te-gee, er whatever his name is, is a plumb dumb ijit, but I don’t see what’s to be done, now that the kids is full well cropped. I might go and burn his shop over his head, but that wouldn’t bring no hair back onto the kids. They’re even kicking on sashes now, and that’s all right, ‘cause what fer does a boy want a sash?”

  Whereupon Trescott perceived that the old man wore his brains above his shoulders, and Trescott departed from him rejoicing greatly that it was only women who could not know that there was finality to most disasters, and that when a thing was fully done, no amount of door-slammings, rushing up-stairs and down-stairs, calls, lamentations, tears, could bring back a single hair to the heads of twins.

  AT THE RAILWAY STATION

  But the rains came and the winds blew in the most biblical way when a certain fact came to light in the Trescott household. Little Cora, corroborated by Jimmie, innocently remarked that five dollars had been given her by her father on her birthday, and with this money the evil had been wrought. Trescott had known it, but he — thoughtful man — had said nothing. For her part, the mother of the angel child had up to that moment never reflected that the consummation of the wickedness must have cost a small sum of money. But now it was all clear to her. He was the guilty one — he! “My angel child!”

  The scene which ensued was inspiriting. A few days later, loungers at the railway station saw a lady leading a shorn and still undaunted lamb. Attached to them was a husband and father, who was plainly bewildered, but still more plainly vexed, as if he would be saying: “Damn ‘em! Why can’t they leave me alone?”

  LYNX-HUNTING

  JIMMIE lounged about the dining-room and watched his mother with large, serious eyes. Suddenly he said, “Ma — now — can I borrow pa’s gun?”

  She was overcome with the feminine horror which is able to mistake preliminary words for the full accomplishment of the dread thing. “Why, Jimmie!” she cried. “Of al-l wonders! Your father’s gun! No indeed you can’t!”

  He was fairly well crushed, but he managed to mutter, sullenly, “Well, Willie Dalzel, he’s got a gun.” In reality his heart had previously been beating with such tumult — he had himself been so impressed with the daring and sin of his request — that he was glad that all was over now, and his mother could do very little further harm to his sensibilities. He had been influenced into the venture by the larger boys.

  “‘MA — NOW — CAN I BORROW PA’S GUN?’”

  “Huh!” the Dalzel urchin had said; “your father’s got a gun, hasn’t he? Well, why don’t you bring that?”

  Puffing himself, Jimmie had replied, “Well, I can, if I want to.” It was a black lie, but really the Dalzel boy was too outrageous with his eternal bill-posting about the gun which a beaming uncle had intrusted to him. Its possession made him superior in manfulness to most boys in the neighborhood — or at least they enviously conceded him such position — but he was so overbearing, and stuffed the fact of his treasure so relentlessly down their throats, that on this occasion the miserable Jimmie had lied as naturally as most animals swim.

  Willie Dalzel had not been checkmated, for he had instantly retorted, “Why don’t you get it, then?”

  “Well, I can, if I want to.”

  “Well, get it, then!”

  “Well, I can, if I want to.”

  Thereupon Jimmie had paced away with great airs of surety as far as the door of his home, where his manner changed to one of tremulous misgiving as it came upon him to address his mother in the dining-room. There had happened that which had happened.

  When Jimmie returned to his two distinguished companions he was blown out with a singular pomposity. He spoke these noble words: “Oh, well, I guess I don’t want to take the gun out to-day.”

  They had been watching him with gleaming ferret eyes, and they detected his falsity at once. They challenged him with shouted gibes, but it was not in the rules for the conduct of boys that one should admit anything whatsoever, and so Jimmie, backed into an ethical corner, lied as stupidly, as desperately, as hopelessly as ever lone savage fights when surrounded at last in his jungle.

  Such accusations were never known to come to any point, for the reason that the number and kind of denials always equalled or exceeded the number of accusations, and no boy was ever brought really to book for these misdeeds.

  In the end they went off together, Willie Dalzel with his gun being a trifle in advance and discoursing upon his various works. They passed along a maple-lined avenue, a highway common to boys bound for that free land of hills and woods in which they lived in some part their romance of the moment, whether it was of Indians, miners, smugglers, soldiers, or outlaws. The paths were their paths, and much was known to them of the secrets of the dark green hemlock thickets, the wastes of sweet-fern and huckleberry, the cliffs of gaunt bluestone with the sumach burning red at their feet. Each boy had, I am sure, a conviction that some day the wilderness was to give forth to him a marvellous secret. They felt that the hills and the forest knew much, and they heard a voice of it in the silence. It was vague, thrilling, fearful, and altogether fabulous. The grown folk seemed to regard these wastes merely as so much distance between one place and another place, or as a rabbit-cover, or as a district to be judged according to the value of the timber; but to the boys it spoke some great inspiring word, which they knew even as those who pace the shore know the enigmatic speech of the surf. In the mean time they lived there, in season, lives of ringing adventure — by dint of imagination.

  The boys left the avenue, skirted hastily through some private grounds, climbed a fence, and entered the thickets. It happened that at school the previous day Willie Dalzel had been forced to read and acquire in some part a solemn description of a lynx. The meagre information thrust upon him had caused him grimaces of suffering, but now he said, suddenly, “I’m goin’ to shoot a lynx.”

  The other boys admired this statement, but they were silent for a time. Finally Jimmie said, meekly, “What’s a lynx?” He had endured his ignorance as long as he was able.

  The Dalzel boy mocked him. “Why, don’t you know what a lynx is? A lynx? Why, a lynx is a animal somethin’ like a cat, an’ it’s got great big green eyes, and it sits on the limb of a tree an’ jus’ glares at you. It’s a pretty bad animal, I tell you. Why, when I—”

  “Huh!” said the third boy. “Where’d you ever see a lynx?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen ’em — plenty of ‘em. I bet you’d be scared if you seen one once.”

  Jimmie and the other boy each demanded, “How do you know I would?”

  They penetrated deeper into the wood. They climbed a rocky zigzag path which led them at times where with their hands they could almost touch the tops of giant pines. The gray cliffs sprang sheer towards the sky. Willie Dalzel babbled about his impossible lynx, and they stalked the mountain-side like chamois-hunters, although no noise of bird or beast broke the stillness of the hills. Below them Whilomville was spread out somewhat like the cheap green and black lithograph of the time—”A Bird’s-eye View of Whilomville, N. Y.”

  THE DALZEL BOY TAKING THE PART OF A BANDIT CHIEF

  In the end the boys reached the top of the mountain and scouted off among wild and desolate ridges. They were burning with the desire to slay large animals. They thought continually of elephants, lions, tigers, crocodiles. They discoursed upo
n their immaculate conduct in case such monsters confronted them, and they all lied carefully about their courage.

  The breeze was heavy with the smell of sweet-fern. The pines and hemlocks sighed as they waved their branches. In the hollows the leaves of the laurels were lacquered where the sunlight found them. No matter the weather, it would be impossible to long continue an expedition of this kind without a fire, and presently they built one, snapping down for fuel the brittle under-branches of the pines. About this fire they were willed to conduct a sort of play, the Dalzel boy taking the part of a bandit chief, and the other boys being his trusty lieutenants. They stalked to and fro, long-strided, stern yet devil-may-care, three terrible little figures.

  Jimmie had an uncle who made game of him whenever he caught him in this kind of play, and often this uncle quoted derisively the following classic: “Once aboard the lugger, Bill, and the girl is mine. Now to burn the château

  and destroy all evidence of our crime. But, hark’e, Bill, no wiolence.” Wheeling abruptly, he addressed these dramatic words to his comrades. They were impressed; they decided at once to be smugglers, and in the most ribald fashion they talked about carrying off young women.

  At last they continued their march through the woods. The smuggling motif was now grafted fantastically upon the original lynx idea, which Willie Dalzel refused to abandon at any price.

  Once they came upon an innocent bird who happened to be looking another way at the time. After a great deal of manœvering and big words, Willie Dalzel reared his fowling-piece and blew this poor thing into a mere rag of wet feathers, of which he was proud.

  Afterwards the other big boy had a turn at another bird. Then it was plainly Jimmie’s chance. The two others had, of course, some thought of cheating him out of this chance, but of a truth he was timid to explode such a thunderous weapon, and as soon as they detected this fear they simply overbore him, and made it clearly understood that if he refused to shoot he would lose his caste, his scalp-lock, his girdle, his honor.

  They had reached the old death-colored snake-fence which marked the limits of the upper pasture of the Fleming farm. Under some hickory-trees the path ran parallel to the fence. Behold! a small priestly chipmonk came to a rail, and folding his hands on his abdomen, addressed them in his own tongue. It was Jimmie’s shot. Adjured by the others, he took the gun. His face was stiff with apprehension. The Dalzel boy was giving forth fine words. “Go ahead. Aw, don’t be afraid. It’s nothin’ to do. Why, I’ve done it a million times. Don’t shut both your eyes, now. Jus’ keep one open and shut the other one. He’ll get away if you don’t watch out. Now you’re all right. Why don’t you let’er go? Go ahead.”

  “THERE WAS A FRIGHTFUL ROAR”

  Jimmie, with his legs braced apart, was in the centre of the path. His back was greatly bent, owing to the mechanics of supporting the heavy gun. His companions were screeching in the rear. There was a wait.

  Then he pulled trigger. To him there was a frightful roar, his cheek and his shoulder took a stunning blow, his face felt a hot flush of fire, and opening his two eyes, he found that he was still alive. He was not too dazed to instantly adopt a becoming egotism. It had been the first shot of his life.

  But directly after the well-mannered celebration of this victory a certain cow, which had been grazing in the line of fire, was seen to break wildly across the pasture, bellowing and bucking. The three smugglers and lynx-hunters looked at each other out of blanched faces. Jimmie had hit the cow. The first evidence of his comprehension of this fact was in the celerity with which he returned the discharged gun to Willie Dalzel.

  They turned to flee. The land was black, as if it had been overshadowed suddenly with thick storm-clouds, and even as they fled in their horror a gigantic Swedish farm-hand came from the heavens and fell upon them, shrieking in eerie triumph. In a twinkle they were clouted prostrate. The Swede was elate and ferocious in a foreign and fulsome way. He continued to beat them and yell.

  From the ground they raised their dismal appeal. “Oh, please, mister, we didn’t do it! He did it! I didn’t do it! We didn’t do it! We didn’t mean to do it! Oh, please, mister!”

  In these moments of childish terror little lads go half-blind, and it is possible that few moments of their after-life made them suffer as they did when the Swede flung them over the fence and marched them towards the farm-house. They begged like cowards on the scaffold, and each one was for himself. “Oh, please let me go, mister! I didn’t do it, mister! He did it! Oh, p-l-ease let me go, mister!”

  “‘I THOUGHT SHE WAS A LYNX’”

  The boyish view belongs to boys alone, and if this tall and knotted laborer was needlessly without charity, none of the three lads questioned it. Usually when they were punished they decided that they deserved it, and the more they were punished the more they were convinced that they were criminals of a most subterranean type. As to the hitting of the cow being a pure accident, and therefore not of necessity a criminal matter, such reading never entered their heads. When things happened and they were caught, they commonly paid dire consequences, and they were accustomed to measure the probabilities of woe utterly by the damage done, and not in any way by the culpability. The shooting of the cow was plainly heinous, and undoubtedly their dungeons would be knee-deep in water.

  “He did it, mister!” This was a general outcry. Jimmie used it as often as did the others. As for them, it is certain that they had no direct thought of betraying their comrade for their own salvation. They thought themselves guilty because they were caught; when boys were not caught they might possibly be innocent. But captured boys were guilty. When they cried out that Jimmie was the culprit, it was principally a simple expression of terror.

  Old Henry Fleming, the owner of the farm, strode across the pasture towards them. He had in his hand a most cruel whip. This whip he flourished. At his approach the boys suffered the agonies of the fire regions. And yet anybody with half an eye could see that the whip in his hand was a mere accident, and that he was a kind old man — when he cared.

  When he had come near he spoke crisply. “What you boys ben doin’ to my cow?” The tone had deep threat in it. They all answered by saying that none of them had shot the cow. Their denials were tearful and clamorous, and they crawled knee by knee. The vision of it was like three martyrs being dragged towards the stake. Old Fleming stood there, grim, tight-lipped. After a time he said, “Which boy done it?”

  There was some confusion, and then Jimmie spake. “I done it, mister.”

  Fleming looked at him. Then he asked, “Well, what did you shoot ‘er fer?”

  Jimmie thought, hesitated, decided, faltered, and then formulated this: “I thought she was a lynx.”

  Old Fleming and his Swede at once lay down in the grass and laughed themselves helpless.

  THE LOVER AND THE TELLTALE

  WHEN the angel child returned with her parents to New York, the fond heart of Jimmie Trescott felt its bruise greatly. For two days he simply moped, becoming a stranger to all former joys. When his old comrades yelled invitation, as they swept off on some interesting quest, he replied with mournful gestures of disillusion.

  He thought often of writing to her, but of course the shame of it made him pause. Write a letter to a girl? The mere enormity of the idea caused him shudders. Persons of his quality never wrote letters to girls. Such was the occupation of mollycoddles and snivellers. He knew that if his acquaintances and friends found in him evidences of such weakness and general milkiness, they would fling themselves upon him like so many wolves, and bait him beyond the borders of sanity.

  However, one day at school, in that time of the morning session when children of his age were allowed fifteen minutes of play in the school-grounds, he did not as usual rush forth ferociously to his games. Commonly he was of the worst hoodlums, preying upon his weaker brethren with all the cruel disregard of a grown man. On this particular morning he stayed in the school-room, and with his tongue stuck from the corner of his mou
th, and his head twisting in a painful way, he wrote to little Cora, pouring out to her all the poetry of his hungry soul, as follows: “My dear Cora I love thee with all my hart oh come bac again, bac, bac gain for I love thee best of all oh come bac again When the spring come again we’l fly and we’l fly like a brid.”

  As for the last word, he knew under normal circumstances perfectly well how to spell “bird,” but in this case he had transposed two of the letters through excitement, supreme agitation.

  Nor had this letter been composed without fear and furtive glancing. There was always a number of children who, for the time, cared more for the quiet of the school-room than for the tempest of the play-ground, and there was always that dismal company who were being forcibly deprived of their recess — who were being “kept in.” More than one curious eye was turned upon the desperate and lawless Jimmie Trescott suddenly taken to ways of peace, and as he felt these eyes he flushed guiltily, with felonious glances from side to side.

  It happened that a certain vigilant little girl had a seat directly across the aisle from Jimmie’s seat, and she had remained in the room during the intermission, because of her interest in some absurd domestic details concerning her desk. Parenthetically it might be stated that she was in the habit of imagining this desk to be a house, and at this time, with an important little frown, indicative of a proper matron, she was engaged in dramatizing her ideas of a household.

  But this small Rose Goldege happened to be of a family which numbered few males. It was, in fact, one of those curious middle-class families that hold much of their ground, retain most of their position, after all their visible means of support have been dropped in the grave. It contained now only a collection of women who existed submissively, defiantly, securely, mysteriously, in a pretentious and often exasperating virtue. It was often too triumphantly clear that they were free of bad habits. However, bad habits is a term here used in a commoner meaning, because it is certainly true that the principal and indeed solitary joy which entered their lonely lives was the joy of talking wickedly and busily about their neighbors. It was all done without dream of its being of the vulgarity of the alleys. Indeed it was simply a constitutional but not incredible chastity and honesty expressing itself in its ordinary superior way of the whirling circles of life, and the vehemence of the criticism was not lessened by a further infusion of an acid of worldly defeat, worldly suffering, and worldly hopelessness.