Maggie: A Girl of the Streets
In a fury he plunged out of the doorway. As he vanished the mother
raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating.
"May Gawd curse her forever," she cried.
In the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women talking
volubly. When he strode by they paid no attention to him.
"She allus was a bold thing," he heard one of them cry in an eager
voice. "Dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd try teh mash
'im. My Annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh ketch her feller, her
own feller, what we useter know his fader."
"I could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago," said a woman, in a key of
triumph. "Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says teh my ol' man,
I says, 'Dat Johnson girl ain't straight,' I says. 'Oh, hell,' he
says. 'Oh, hell.' 'Dat's all right,' I says, 'but I know what I
knows,' I says, 'an' it 'ill come out later. You wait an' see,' I
says, 'you see.'"
"Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong wid dat
girl. I didn't like her actions."
On the street Jimmie met a friend. "What deh hell?" asked the latter.
Jimmie explained. "An' I'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand."
"Oh, what deh hell," said the friend. "What's deh use! Yeh'll git
pulled in! Everybody 'ill be onto it! An' ten plunks! Gee!"
Jimmie was determined. "He t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll fin' out
diff'ent."
"Gee," remonstrated the friend. "What deh hell?"
Chapter XI
On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the
pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers
to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage.
The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of
imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended
down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing
sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of
shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face
of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins,
arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued
decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves.
A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre
of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be
opulence and geometrical accuracy.
Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon
which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham,
dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor
of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded.
Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward
a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped
glassful and set it dripping upon the bar.
At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and
crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They
swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at
Pete with bleared and blinking eyes.
"Gin," said Jimmie.
"Gin," said the companion.
Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head
sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming
wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features.
Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and
conversed loudly in tones of contempt.
"He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie.
"Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's great, he
is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to make a feller
turn hand-springs in 'is sleep."
The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away
and maintained an attitude of oblivion.
"Gee! ain't he hot stuff!"
"Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!"
"Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with
a sullen dropping of the under lip.
"Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?"
"Gin," said Jimmie.
"Gin," said the companion.
As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed
in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment,
pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction.
"Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?"
"Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put
down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He
disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly.
"You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git out an'
don' make no trouble."
Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and
expressions of offended dignity immediately came.
"Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath.
The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly.
"Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up for no
jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble."
"Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie.
"Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion.
"We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie.
"Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble."
Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled
like a wild animal.
"Well, what if we does? See?" said he.
Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at
Jimmie.
"Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said.
The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door.
Jimmie began to swell with valor.
"Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles
one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper, I am. Ain't
dat right, Billie?"
"Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction.
"Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself."
The two men again began to laugh.
"What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion.
"Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt.
Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make no
trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn
likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. I know
yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes.
Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted
out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from
behind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?"
"Oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus.
The glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes. "Dat's what I said!
Unnerstan'?"
He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon
the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him.
They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads pugnaciously
and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles about each mouth
twitched with a forced smile of mockery.
"Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted Jimmie.
Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep the men
from coming too near.
"Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated Jimmie's ally. They
kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove to make him
attempt the initial blow.
"Keep back, now! Don' crowd me," ominously said Pete.
Again they chorused in contempt. "Oh, hell!"
In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions like
frigates contemplating battle.
"Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried Jimmie and
his ally with copious sneers.
The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men. Their clenched
fists moved like eager weapons.
The allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him with
feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall.
Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from his eyes.
He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-like blow at
Jimmie's face. His foot swung a step forward and the weight of his
body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head, Bowery-like, with
the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering blows of him and his
ally crushed on Pete's bowed head.
The quiet stranger vanished.
The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails. The faces
of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now began to fade
to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle. Their
lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like
grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled hoarse whisperings
of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire.
Each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms were
swinging with marvelous rapidity. Feet scraped to and fro with a loud
scratching sound upon the sanded floor. Blows left crimson blotches
upon pale skin. The curses of the first quarter minute of the fight
died away. The breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips
and the three chests were straining and heaving. Pete at intervals
gave vent to low, labored hisses, that sounded like a desire to kill.
Jimmie's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac. Jimmie was
silent, fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest. The rage of
fear shone in all their eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled.
At a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally and he
crashed to the floor. He wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping
the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at Pete's head.
High on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments flying in
all directions. Then missiles came to every man's hand. The place had
heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but suddenly glass and
bottles went singing through the air. They were thrown point blank at
bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering glasses, that had never been
disturbed, changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them.
Mirrors splintered to nothing.
The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy
for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and fists some
unknown prayers, perhaps for death.
The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the
sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block.
"Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street."
People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the
saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to look under the
bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three pairs of violent
legs, changed in a moment to a crowd.
A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the
doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in absorbing
anxiety to see.
Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet
he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck, he had
for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door.
The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive
sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced
Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort at
Jimmie's coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused.
"Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh been up to?"
Jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street,
pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited
individuals of the crowd.
Later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the ally and
the bartender emerge from the saloon. Pete locked the doors and then
followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-encompassed policeman
and his charge.
On first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat,
started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted.
"Ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself.