The royal retainer nodded solemnly at the wide-eyed group. “Course you can!”
“Why,” spouted Jimmie, “you just ought to see me ride once! You just ought to see me! Why, I can go like the wind! Can’t I, Clarence? And I can ride far, too — oh, awful far! Can’t I, Clarence? Why, I wouldn’t have that one! ‘Tain’t any good! You just ought to see mine once!”
The overwhelmed Horace attempted to reconstruct his battered glories. “I can ride right over the curb-stone — at some of the crossin’s,” he announced, brightly.
Jimmie’s derision was a splendid sight. “‘Right over the curb-stone!’ Why, that wouldn’t be nothin’ for me to do! I’ve rode mine down Bridge Street hill. Yessir! ‘Ain’t I, Clarence? Why, it ain’t nothin’ to ride over a curb-stone — not for me! Is it, Clarence?”
“Down Bridge Street hill? You never!” said Horace, hopelessly.
“Well, didn’t I, Clarence? Didn’t I, now?”
The faithful retainer again nodded solemnly at the assemblage.
At last Horace, having fallen as low as was possible, began to display a spirit for climbing up again. “Oh, you can do wonders!” he said, laughing. “You can do wonders! I s’pose you could ride down that bank there?” he asked, with art. He had indicated a grassy terrace some six feet in height which bounded one side of the walk. At the bottom was a small ravine in which the reckless had flung ashes and tins. “I s’pose you could ride down that bank?”
“‘I—’ HE BEGAN. THEN HE VANISHED FROM THE EDGE OF THE WALK.”
All eyes now turned upon Jimmie to detect a sign of his weakening, but he instantly and sublimely arose to the occasion. “That bank?” he asked, scornfully. “Why, I’ve ridden down banks like that many a time. ‘Ain’t I, Clarence?”
This was too much for the company. A sound like the wind in the leaves arose; it was the song of incredulity and ridicule. “O — o — o — o — o!” And on the outskirts a little girl suddenly shrieked out, “Story-teller!”
Horace had certainly won a skirmish. He was gleeful. “Oh, you can do wonders!” he gurgled. “You can do wonders!” The neighborhood’s superficial hostility to foreigners arose like magic under the influence of his sudden success, and Horace had the delight of seeing Jimmie persecuted in that manner known only to children and insects.
Jimmie called angrily to the boy on the velocipede, “If you’ll lend me yours, I’ll show you whether I can or not.”
Horace turned his superior nose in the air. “Oh no! I don’t ever lend it.” Then he thought of a blow which would make Jimmie’s humiliation complete. “Besides,” he said,
airily, “‘tain’t really anything hard to do. I could do it — easy — if I wanted to.”
But his supposed adherents, instead of receiving this boast with cheers, looked upon him in a sudden blank silence. Jimmie and his retainer pounced like cats upon their advantage.
“Oh,” they yelled, “you could, eh? Well, let’s see you do it, then! Let’s see you do it! Let’s see you do it! Now!” In a moment the crew of little spectators were gibing at Horace.
The blow that would make Jimmie’s humiliation complete! Instead, it had boomeranged Horace into the mud. He kept up a sullen muttering:
“‘Tain’t really anything! I could if I wanted to!”
“Dare you to!” screeched Jimmie and his partisans. “Dare you to! Dare you to! Dare you to!”
There were two things to be done — to make gallant effort or to retreat. Somewhat to their amazement, the children at last found Horace moving through their clamor to the edge of the bank. Sitting on the velocipede, he looked at the ravine, and then, with gloomy pride, at the other children. A hush came upon them, for it was seen that he was intending to make some kind of an ante-mortem statement.
“I—” he began. Then he vanished from the edge of the walk. The start had been unintentional — an accident.
The stupefied Jimmie saw the calamity through a haze. His first clear vision was when Horace, with a face as red as a red flag, arose bawling from his tangled velocipede. He and his retainer exchanged a glance of horror and fled the neighborhood. They did not look back until they had reached the top of the hill near the lake. They could see Horace walking slowly under the maples towards his home, pushing his shattered velocipede before him. His chin was thrown high, and the breeze bore them the sound of his howls.
MAKING AN ORATOR
IN the school at Whilomville it was the habit, when children had progressed to a certain class, to have them devote Friday afternoon to what was called elocution. This was in the piteously ignorant belief that orators were thus made. By process of school law, unfortunate boys and girls were dragged up to address their fellow-scholars in the literature of the mid-century. Probably the children who were most capable of expressing themselves, the children who were most sensitive to the power of speech, suffered the most wrong. Little blockheads who could learn eight lines of conventional poetry, and could get up and spin it rapidly at their classmates, did not undergo a single pang. The plan operated mainly to agonize many children permanently against arising to speak their thought to fellow-creatures.
Jimmie Trescott had an idea that by exhibition of undue ignorance he could escape from being promoted into the first class room which exacted such penalty from its inmates. He preferred to dwell in a less classic shade rather than venture into a domain where he was obliged to perform a certain duty which struck him as being worse than death. However, willy-nilly, he was somehow sent ahead into the place of torture.
Every Friday at least ten of the little children had to mount the stage beside the teacher’s desk and babble something which none of them understood. This was to make them orators. If it had been ordered that they should croak like frogs, it would have advanced most of them just as far towards oratory.
Alphabetically Jimmie Trescott was near the end of the list of victims, but his time was none the less inevitable. “Tanner, Timmens, Trass, Trescott—” He saw his downfall approaching.
He was passive to the teacher while she drove into his mind the incomprehensible lines of “The Charge of the Light Brigade”:
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward —
He had no conception of a league. If in the ordinary course of life somebody had told him that he was half a league from home, he might have been frightened that half a league was fifty miles; but he struggled manfully with the valley of death and a mystic six hundred, who were performing something there which was very fine, he had been told. He learned all the verses.
But as his own Friday afternoon approached he was moved to make known to his family that a dreadful disease was upon him, and was likely at any time to prevent him from going to his beloved school.
On the great Friday when the children of his initials were to speak their pieces Dr. Trescott was away from home, and the mother of the boy was alarmed beyond measure at Jimmie’s curious illness, which caused him to lie on the rug in front of the fire and groan cavernously.
She bathed his feet in hot mustard water until they were lobster-red. She also placed a mustard plaster on his chest.
He announced that these remedies did him no good at all — no good at all. With an air of martyrdom he endured a perfect downpour of motherly attention all that day. Thus the first Friday was passed in safety.
With singular patience he sat before the fire in the dining-room and looked at picture-books, only complaining of pain when he suspected his mother of thinking that he was getting better.
The next day being Saturday and a holiday, he was miraculously delivered from the arms of disease, and went forth to play, a blatantly healthy boy.
He had no further attack until Thursday night of the next week, when he announced that he felt very, very poorly. The mother was already chronically alarmed over the condition of her son, but Dr. Trescott asked him questions which denoted some incredulity. On the third Friday Jimmie was dropped at the door of the school from the
doctor’s buggy. The other children, notably those who had already passed over the mountain of distress, looked at him with glee, seeing in him another lamb brought to butchery. Seated at his desk in the school-room, Jimmie sometimes remembered with dreadful distinctness every line of “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” and at other times his mind was utterly empty of it. Geography, arithmetic, and spelling — usually great tasks — quite rolled off him. His mind was dwelling with terror upon the time when his name should be called and he was obliged to go up to the platform, turn, bow, and recite his message to his fellow-men.
Desperate expedients for delay came to him. If he could have engaged the services of a real pain, he would have been glad. But steadily, inexorably, the minutes marched on towards his great crisis, and all his plans for escape blended into a mere panic fear.
The maples outside were defeating the weakening rays of the afternoon sun, and in the shadowed school-room had come a stillness, in which, nevertheless, one could feel the complacence of the little pupils who had already passed through the flames. They were calmly prepared to recognize as a spectacle the torture of others.
Little Johnnie Tanner opened the ceremony. He stamped heavily up to the platform, and bowed in such a manner that he almost fell down. He blurted out that it would ill befit him to sit silent while the name of his fair Ireland was being reproached, and he appealed to the gallant soldier before him if every British battle-field was not sown with the bones of sons of the Emerald Isle. He was also heard to say that he had listened with deepening surprise and scorn to the insinuation of the honorable member from North Glenmorganshire that the loyalty of the Irish regiments in her Majesty’s service could be questioned. To what purpose, then, he asked, had the blood of Irishmen flowed on a hundred fields? To what purpose had Irishmen gone to their death with bravery and devotion in every part of the world where the victorious flag of England had been carried? If the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire insisted upon construing a mere pothouse row between soldiers in Dublin into a grand treachery to the colors and to her Majesty’s uniform, then it was time for Ireland to think bitterly of her dead sons, whose graves now marked every step of England’s progress, and yet who could have their honors stripped from them so easily by the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire. Furthermore, the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire —
It is needless to say that little Johnnie Tanner’s language made it exceedingly hot for the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire. But Johnnie was not angry. He was only in haste. He finished the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire in what might be called a gallop.
Susie Timmens then went to the platform, and with a face as pale as death whisperingly reiterated that she would be Queen of the May. The child represented there a perfect picture of unnecessary suffering. Her small lips were quite blue, and her eyes, opened wide, stared with a look of horror at nothing.
The phlegmatic Trass boy, with his moon face only expressing peasant parentage, calmly spoke some undeniably true words concerning destiny.
In his seat Jimmie Trescott was going half blind with fear of his approaching doom. He wished that the Trass boy would talk forever about destiny. If the school-house had taken fire he thought that he would have felt simply relief. Anything was better. Death amid the flames was preferable to a recital of “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”
But the Trass boy finished his remarks about destiny in a very short time. Jimmie heard the teacher call his name, and he felt the whole world look at him. He did not know how he made his way to the stage. Parts of him seemed to be of lead, and at the same time parts of him seemed to be light as air, detached. His face had gone as pale as had been the face of Susie Timmens. He was simply a child in torment; that is all there is to be said specifically about it; and to intelligent people the exhibition would have been not more edifying than a dog-fight.
“AND THEN HE SUDDENLY SAID, ‘HALF A LEG—’”
He bowed precariously, choked, made an inarticulate sound, and then he suddenly said,
“Half a leg—”
“League,” said the teacher, coolly.
“Half a leg—”
“League,” said the teacher.
“League,” repeated Jimmie, wildly.
“Half a league, half a league, half a league onward.”
He paused here and looked wretchedly at the teacher.
“Half a league,” he muttered—”half a league—”
He seemed likely to keep continuing this phrase indefinitely, so after a time the teacher said, “Well, go on.”
“Half a league,” responded Jimmie.
The teacher had the opened book before her, and she read from it:
“‘All in the valley of Death
Rode the—’
Go on,” she concluded.
Jimmie said,
“All in the valley of Death
Rode the — the — the—”
He cast a glance of supreme appeal upon the teacher, and breathlessly whispered, “Rode the what?”
The young woman flushed with indignation to the roots of her hair.
“Rode the six hundred,”
she snapped at him.
The class was arustle with delight at this cruel display. They were no better than a Roman populace in Nero’s time.
Jimmie started off again:
“Half a leg — league, half a league, half a league onward.
All in the valley of death rode the six hundred.
Forward — forward — forward—”
“The Light Brigade,” suggested the teacher, sharply.
“The Light Brigade,” said Jimmie. He was about to die of the ignoble pain of his position.
As for Tennyson’s lines, they had all gone grandly out of his mind, leaving it a whited wall.
The teacher’s indignation was still rampant. She looked at the miserable wretch before her with an angry stare.
“You stay in after school and learn that all over again,” she commanded. “And be prepared to speak it next Friday. I am astonished at you, Jimmie. Go to your seat.”
If she had suddenly and magically made a spirit of him and left him free to soar high above all the travail of our earthly lives she could not have overjoyed him more. He fled back to his seat without hearing the low-toned gibes of his schoolmates. He gave no thought to the terrors of the next Friday. The evils of the day had been sufficient, and to a childish mind a week is a great space of time.
With the delightful inconsistency of his age he sat in blissful calm, and watched the sufferings of an unfortunate boy named Zimmerman, who was the next victim of education. Jimmie, of course, did not know that on this day there had been laid for him the foundation of a finished incapacity for public speaking which would be his until he died.
SHAME
DON’T come in here botherin’ me,” said the cook, intolerantly. “What with your mother bein’ away on a visit, an’ your father comin’ home soon to lunch, I have enough on my mind — and that without bein’ bothered with you. The kitchen is no place for little boys, anyhow. Run away, and don’t be interferin’ with my work.” She frowned and made a grand pretence of being deep in herculean labors; but Jimmie did not run away.
“Now — they’re goin’ to have a picnic,” he said, half audibly.
“What?”
“Now — they’re goin’ to have a picnic.”
“Who’s goin’ to have a picnic?” demanded the cook, loudly. Her accent could have led one to suppose that if the projectors did not turn out to be the proper parties, she immediately would forbid this picnic.
Jimmie looked at her with more hopefulness. After twenty minutes of futile skirmishing, he had at least succeeded in introducing the subject. To her question he answered, eagerly:
“Oh, everybody! Lots and lots of boys and girls. Everybody.”
“Who’s everybody?”
According to custom, Jimmie began to singsong through his nose in a quite indescri
bable fashion an enumeration of the prospective picnickers: “Willie Dalzel an’ Dan Earl an’ Ella Earl an’ Wolcott Margate an’ Reeves Margate an’ Walter Phelps an’ Homer Phelps an’ Minnie Phelps an’ — oh — lots more girls an’ — everybody. An’ their mothers an’ big sisters too.” Then he announced a new bit of information: “They’re goin’ to have a picnic.”
“Well, let them,” said the cook, blandly.
Jimmie fidgeted for a time in silence. At last he murmured, “I — now — I thought maybe you’d let me go.”
The cook turned from her work with an air of irritation and amazement that Jimmie should still be in the kitchen. “Who’s stoppin’ you?” she asked, sharply. “I ain’t stoppin’ you, am I?”
“No,” admitted Jimmie, in a low voice.
“Well, why don’t you go, then? Nobody’s stoppin’ you.”
“But,” said Jimmie, “I — you — now — each fellow has got to take somethin’ to eat with ‘m.”
“Oh ho!” cried the cook, triumphantly. “So that’s it, is it? So that’s what you’ve been shyin’ round here fer, eh? Well, you may as well take yourself off without more words. What with your mother bein’ away on a visit, an’ your father comin’ home soon to his lunch, I have enough on my mind — an’ that without being bothered with you!”
Jimmie made no reply, but moved in grief towards the door. The cook continued: “Some people in this house seem to think there’s ‘bout a thousand cooks in this kitchen. Where I used to work b’fore, there was some reason in ‘em. I ain’t a horse. A picnic!”
Jimmie said nothing, but he loitered.
“Seems as if I had enough to do, without havin’ you come round talkin’ about picnics. Nobody ever seems to think of the work I have to do. Nobody ever seems to think of it. Then they come and talk to me about picnics! What do I care about picnics?”
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 129
