The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “She drove me out, Soapy! She drove me away from her!” he repeated for the hundredth time. The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye, and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with every sip.

  “She told me t’ leave her! She drove me away from her—”

  “So you come here, eh, Kid?” drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering. “You skinned over here t’ Bud f’ comfort, an’ you’ll sure get it, Kid—in a glass!”

  “Bud’s always good t’ me—”

  “‘S right, Kid, ‘s right, Bud’s an angel sure, though he ain’t got no wings yet. Oh, Bud’ll comfort ye—frequent, an’ by an’ by he’ll take ye back t’ Hermy good an’ soused; you can get your own back that ways—eh, Kid? It’ll sure make her sit up an’ take notice when she sees ye come in reelin’ an’ staggerin’—eh, Kid? An’ to-morrow you’ll be sick mebbe, an’ she’ll have ter nurse ye—oh, Bud’ll fix things fer ye, I guess.” Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

  “I ain’t goin’ home soused!” he muttered.

  “No?” said Soapy, faintly surprised. “Bud’ll feel kind o’ hurt, won’t he?”

  “I ain’t goin’ home soused—not for Bud nor nobody else!”

  “Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in.”

  “I guess I will,” said Spike, rising.

  But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M’Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.

  “Why, it’s—it’s—Bud!” stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, “my God! It’s—Bud!”

  “‘S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and, though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly, and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.

  “Ain’t—dead, is he?” some one questioned.

  “Dead—not much!” answered Soapy, “guess it’s goin’ to take more ‘n that t’ make Bud a stiff ‘un. Besides, Bud ain’t goin’ t’ die that way, no, not—that way, I reckon. Dead? Watch this!” So saying, he reached Spike’s half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop, poured the raw spirit down upon M’Ginnis’s pale, blood-smirched face.

  “Dead?” said Soapy. “Well, I guess not—look at him!”

  And, sure enough, M’Ginnis stirred, groaned, opened swollen eyelids and, aided by some ready arm, sat up feebly. Then he glanced up at the ring of peering faces and down upon his rent and dusty person, and fell to a sudden, fierce torrent of curses; cursing thus, his strength seemed to return all at once, for he sprang to his feet and with clenched fists drove through the crowd, and lifting a flap in the bar, opened a door beyond and was gone.

  “No,” said Soapy, shaking his head, “I guess Bud ain’t dead—yet, fellers. I wonder who gave him that eye, Kid? An’ his mouth too! Did ye pipe them split lips! Kind o’ painful, I guess. An’ a couple o’ teeth knocked out too! Some punchin’, Kid! An’ Bud kind o’ fancied them nice, white teeth of his a whole heap!”

  Here the bartender glanced toward the corner where they stood, and, lifting an eyebrow, jerked his thumb at the door behind him with the words: “Kid, I reckon Bud wants ye.”

  For a moment Spike hesitated then, lifting the mahogany flap, crossed the bar, and opened the door.

  “Guess I’ll come along, Kid,” and, hands in pockets, Soapy followed.

  They found M’Ginnis sprawling at a table and scowling at the knuckles of his bruised right hand while at his elbow were a bottle and two glasses. He had washed the blood and dirt from him, had brushed and straightened his dusty garments, but he couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises that disfigured his face, nor his scratched and swollen throat.

  “What you here for?” he demanded, as Soapy closed the door, “didn’t send for you, did I?”

  “No, that’s why I come, Bud.”

  “But, say, Bud, what—what’s been th’ matter?” stammered Spike, his gaze upon M’Ginnis’s battered face, “who’s been—”

  “Matter? Nothin’! I had a bit of a rough-house as I come along—”

  “‘S right,” nodded Soapy, “you sure look it! Never seen a fatter eye—”

  “Well, what you got t’ beef about?”

  “Nothin’, Bud, only—”

  “Only what?”

  “It’s kind o’ tough you losin’ them couple o’ teeth—or is it three?”

  M’Ginnis turned on him with a snarl. “A-r-r-, you—! Some day I’m goin’ t’ kick the insides out o’ ye!”

  “Some day, Bud, sure. I’ll be waitin’! Meantime why not get some doctor-guy t’ put ye face back in shape—gee, I hate t’ see ye—you look like a butcher’s shop! An’ them split lips pains some, I guess!”

  Here, while M’Ginnis choked in impotent rage, Soapy lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and held out the packet.

  “Try a coffin-nail, Bud? No? Well, I guess y’ couldn’t smoke good with a mouth on ye like that.”

  “Who did it, Bud?” questioned Spike eagerly. “Who was it?”

  “Hush up, Kid, hush up!” said Soapy, viewing M’Ginnis’s cuts and bruises with glistening eyes. “I guess that guy’s layin’ around somewheres waitin’ f’r th’ coroner—Bud wouldn’t let him make such a holy mess of his face an’ get away with it—not much! Bud’s a killer, I know that—don’t I, Bud?”

  “You close up that dog’s head o’ yours, Soapy, or by—”

  “‘S all right, Bud, ‘s all right. Don’t get peeved; I’ll close up tighter ‘n a clam, only—it’s kinder tough about them teeth—”

  “Are ye goin’ t’ cut it out or shall—”

  “Aw, calm down, Bud, calm down! Take a drink; it’ll do ye good.” And filling a glass with rye whisky, Soapy set it before M’Ginnis, who cursed him, took it up, and turned to Spike.

  “Fill it up, Kid,” he commanded.

  “Not me, Bud, I—I ain’t here for that,” said Spike. “I come t’ tell ye as some dirty guy’s been an’ blown th’ game on me t’ Hermy; she—she knows everything, an’ to-night she—drove me away from her—”

  “Did she, Kid, oh, did she?” said M’Ginnis, a new note of eagerness in his voice. “Drove ye out onto th’ streets, Kid? That’s dam’ hard on you!”

  “Yes, Bud, I—guess she—don’t want me around—”

  “Kind o’ looks that way!” nodded M’Ginnis, and filling Spike’s glass, he put it into the boy’s unwilling fingers. “Take a drink, Kid; ye sure need it!” said he.

  “‘S right,” murmured Soapy, “told ye Bud ‘ud comfort ye, didn’t I, Kid?”

  “So Hermy’s drove ye away?” said M’Ginnis, “throwed ye out—eh?”

  “She sure has, Bud, an’ I—Oh, I’m miserable as hell!”

  “Why, then, get some o’ Bud’s comfort into ye, Kid,” murmured Soapy. “Lap it up good, Kid; there’s plenty more—in th’ bottle!”

  “Let him alone,” growled M’Ginnis, “he don’t want you buttin’ in!”

  “‘S right, too, Bud!” nodded Soapy, “he’s got you, ain’t he? An’ you—got him, ain’t you?”

  “I didn’t think Hermy ‘ud ever treat me—like this!” said Spike tearfully.

  “You mean—throwin’ ye out into th’ streets, Kid? Why, I been expectin’ it!”

  “Expectin’ it?” repeated Spike, setting down his glass and staring, “why?”

  “Well, she’s a girl, ain’t she, an’ they’re all th’ same, I reckon—”

  “An’ Bud knows all about girls, Kid!” murmured Soapy. “Bud’s wise t’ all their tricks—ain’t you, Bud?”

  “But whatcher mean?” cried Sp
ike. “What ye mean about expectin’ it?”

  “Well, she don’t want ye no more, does she?” answered M’Ginnis, his bruised hands fierce clenched, his voice hoarse and thick with passion. “She’s got some one else now—ain’t she? She’s—in love—ain’t she? She’s all waked up an’ palpitatin’ for—for that dam’—” he choked, and set one hand to his scratched throat.

  “What d’ye mean, Bud?”

  “Ah!” said Soapy, softer than before, “I’m on, Bud; you put me wise! He means, Kid, as Hermy’s in love with th’ guy as has just been punchin’ hell out of him—he means your pal Geoff.” With a hoarse, strangling cry, M’Ginnis leapt up, his hand flashed behind him, and—he stood suddenly very still, staring into the muzzle of the weapon Soapy had levelled from his hip.

  “Aw, quit it, Bud, quit it,” he sighed, “it ain’t come t’ that—yet. Besides, the Kid’s here, so loose ye gun, Bud. No, give it t’me; you’re a bit on edge t’night, I guess, an’ it might go off an’ break a glass or somethin’. So gimme ye gun, Bud. That’s it! Now we can sit an’ talk real sociable, can’t we? Now listen, Bud—what you want is t’ get your own back on this guy Geoff, an’ what th’ Kid wants is t’ show his sister as he ain’t a kid, an’ what I want is t’ give ye both a helpin’ hand—”

  But while M’Ginnis stood scowling at the imperturbable speaker, Spike rose, a little unsteadily, and turned to the door.

  “I’ll be gettin’ on me way, Bud,” said he.

  “Where to?”

  “Home.”

  “What! Back t’ Hermy? After she turned ye out?”

  “But I—I got t’ go somewheres—”

  “Well, you stay right here with me, Kid; I’ll fix ye up all right—”

  “‘S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy. “Bud’ll fix ye all right, same as I said; we’ll have in another bottle when that’s empty!”

  “What about your sister, Kid?” demanded M’Ginnis fiercely. “What about Hermy an’ this swell guy? Are y’ goin’ t’ sit around an’ do nothin’?”

  “But Geoff’s goin’ t’ marry her.”

  “Marry her! What, him? A millionaire marry your sister? You think so, an’ she thinks so, but I know different!”

  “But Hermy ain’t that sort. Hermy’s—good—”

  “Sure, but this guy’s got her fazed—she thinks he’s square all right—she’ll trust him an’ then—s’posin’ he ain’t?”

  “I—I ain’t s’posin’ nothin’ like that!” said Spike, gulping his whisky.

  “Well, s’posin’ he’s been meetin’ her—in a wood—on the sly—eh? S’posin’ they been huggin’ an’ kissin’—”

  “Say now—you cut that out—” stammered Spike, his voice thick. “I tell ye—she ain’t—that kind.”

  “S’posin’,” continued Bud, refilling the lad’s glass, “s’posin’ I could show ‘em to ye in a wood—eh? Ah! What she want t’ meet him in a wood for, anyway—nice an’ quiet, eh?”

  “Say now, Bud, I—I ain’t goin’ t’ listen t’ no more!” said Spike, rising and clutching at the table, “I—I’m goin’ home!” And swaying on unsteady feet, he turned to the door, but M’Ginnis gripped his shoulder.

  “Wait a bit, Kid.”

  “N-no, I’m—goin’ home—see!” said Spike, setting his jaw obstinately, “I’m goin’—r-right now!”

  “That’s just what you ain’t!” snarled M’Ginnis. “Sit down! Hermy’s only a work-girl—don’t forget that, Kid—an’ this guy’s a millionaire. I guess he thinks Hermy’ll do—till he gets tired of her an’—then what?”

  “He—told me he’s goin’ t’ marry her!” said Spike slowly, speaking with an effort, “an’ I guess Geoff ain’t a liar. An’ I wanter—go home.”

  “Home—after she throwed ye out? Ain’t ye got no pride?”

  “Aw, say, Bud,” sighed Soapy, “I guess d’ Kid ain’t soused enough for pride yet; sling another glass int’ him—that’ll fix him good, I reckon.”

  “I ain’t g-goin’ t’ drink no more,” said Spike, resting heavy head between his hands, “I guess I’ll b-beat it home, f’lers.”

  “Bud,” suggested Soapy, “ain’t it about time you rang in little Maggie on him?”

  M’Ginnis whirled upon the speaker, snarling, but Soapy, having lighted another cigarette, nudged Spike with a sharp elbow.

  “Kid,” said he, “Bud’s goin’ t’ remind ye of little Maggie Finlay—you remember little Maggie as drowned herself.” Spike lifted a pale face and stared from the placid Soapy to scowling Bud and shrank away.

  “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, “yes—I’ll never forget how she looked—pale, so pale an’ still, an’ th’ water—runnin’ out of her brown curls—I—I’ll never forget—”

  “Well,” growled M’Ginnis, “watch out Hermy don’t end th’ same way.”

  “No!” cried Spike. “Oh, my God—no!”

  “What’s she meetin’ this millionaire in a wood for—on the sly?”

  “She don’t! Hermy ain’t like that.”

  “I tell ye she does!” cried M’Ginnis, “an’ him kissin’ an’ squeezin’ her an’—nobody by—”

  “It’s a lie, Bud—she—she wouldn’t!”

  “S’posin’ I could show ye? S’pose you see him there—waitin’ for her—”

  “If—if he means any harm t’ Hermy, I—I’ll kill him!”

  “Aw—you wouldn’t have the nerve, Kid!”

  “I’d shoot him dead—by God, I would!”

  “You ain’t man enough, Kid.”

  “You g-give me a gun an’ see. I’d shoot any one t’ save my sister from—th’ river. Oh, my God—I—I’d die for her, an’ she don’t love me no more!” And leaning his head upon his arms, Spike burst into a passion of tears. M’Ginnis watched him awhile, then, filling the boy’s glass, clapped him on the shoulder and held it to his lips.

  “Neck this, Kid,” said he, “neck it all—so, that’s good, ain’t it? To-morrow evenin’ I’ll take ye where they meet; maybe you’ll ketch him waitin’ for her—but instead of Hermy an’ kisses there’ll be you an’ me, hey? Will ye come?”

  “S-sure I will if—you’ll gimme—your gun.”

  “Pshaw, Kid—what’s a kid like you want with a gun?”

  “T’shoot him—”

  “Eh? What? D’ye mean—?”

  “If he’s after my sister, I’ll—kill him! I will, by God, I will!”

  “‘S right,” nodded Soapy, staring into the boy’s drawn face, “‘s right, Bud; if ever I see a killer—th’ Kid’s sure it!”

  Slowly the glare died out of Spike’s eyes, his body drooped, and sighing, he pillowed his heavy head upon the table and fell into a drunken slumber. For a while the two men sat there hearkening to his stertorous breathing, then Soapy laughed soft and mirthlessly. “You sure got th’ Kid all worked up an’ mad enough t’—kill, eh, Bud? If he does get up against this guy Geoff—this guy Geoff’s sure goin’ t’ cash in—sudden. Consequently, I guess you’ll be wantin’ paper an’ pencil—both here!”

  “What th’ hell—” began M’Ginnis.

  “Telegram, Bud. You’re goin’ t’ frame up a nice little telegram t’ this guy Geoff—oh, you sure are th’ fly gazebo! A nice little message—’meet me t’morrow in the wood at sunset—Hermy?’ Somethin’ nice ‘n’ romantic like that’ll bring him on th’ run—eh, Bud? Then, ‘stead of Hermy, comes you an’ th’ Kid, eh, Bud? An’ ‘stead of kisses, this guy Geoff gets a lead pill—eh, Bud? Th’ Kid can’t miss if you get him close enough. It sure is some scheme, Bud; I couldn’t have thought it out better myself. Paper ‘n’ pencil, Bud—get busy an’ I’ll sashay over an’ send it off for ye—t’night.”

  During Soapy’s unusually long speech, M’Ginnis sat staring at him under frowning brows, but now he turned and scowled down at the sheet of paper, picked up the pencil, laid it by again and sat opening and shutting his big hands, while Soapy, lighting another cigarette, watched him furtively. When at last he spoke, his
voice was thick, and he didn’t lift his scowling gaze.

  “Send that kid Larry t’ me, an’ say—you don’t have t’ come back.”

  “All right, Bud, all right—only you’d best send two telegrams t’ make sure—one t’ Fift’ Av, an’ one t’ his place up th’ river. S’ long, Buddy!”

  Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O’Rourke’s, was swung to the wall in Soapy’s grip.

  “Aw—say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?”

  “‘S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram—quick!”

  “Aw, say, what yer mean—’n’ say, Bud told me to hustle, ‘n’ say—”

  “Dig it out—quick!” said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing fiercely. “I want it—see?”

  “But say—” whimpered Larry, “what’ll Bud say—”

  “Nothin’! Bud ain’t goin’ t’ know. You take this instead—take it!” And Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy’s limp hand, who took it whimpering.

  “Bud tol’ me t’ bring it back.”

  “Well, you tell him you lost it.”

  “Not much—I’ll skin right back an’ tell him you pinched it.”

  “You won’t, my sport, you won’t!” said Soapy, and speaking, moved suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with the muzzle of Soapy’s deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. “You ain’t goin’ t’ say a word t’ Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are ye?”

  “No—no—”

  “Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there—right there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an’ see ye get them addresses right. S’long, Larry boy, be good now!” When the boy had scudded away, Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M’Ginnis’s telegram and, being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.

  “You got th’ Kid, Bud,” he murmured, “you got th’ Kid—but if th’ Kid gets the guy Geoff, why—I’ve sure got you, Bud—got ye sure as hell, Bud!”