The Open Boat and Other Stories
gently like a man who has been running.
The others, having emerged unscathed from this part of the conflict,
waxed hilarious with the kid. They smote him on either shoulders.
"We've got you stuck for it, kid! You can't beat that game! Five
queens!"
Up to this time the kid had displayed only the temper of the gambler,
but the cheerful hoots of the players, supplemented now by a ring of
guying non-combatants, caused him to feel profoundly that it would be
fine to beat the five queens. He addressed a gambler's slogan to the
interior of the cup.
"Oh, five white mice of chance,
Shirts of wool and corduroy pants,
Gold and wine, women and sin,
All for you if you let me come in--
Into the house of chance."
Flashing the dice sardonically out upon the bar, he displayed three
aces. From two dice in the next throw he achieved one more ace. For
his last throw, he rattled the single dice for a long time. He already
had four aces; if he accomplished another one, the five queens were
vanquished and the box at the circus came from the drunken man's
pocket. All the kid's movements were slow and elaborate. For the last
throw he planted the cup bottom-down on the bar with the one dice
hidden under it. Then he turned and faced the crowd with the air of a
conjuror or a cheat.
"Oh, maybe it's an ace," he said in boastful calm. "Maybe it's an ace."
Instantly he was presiding over a little drama in which every man was
absorbed. The kid leaned with his back against the bar-rail and with
his elbows upon it.
"Maybe it's an ace," he repeated.
A jeering voice in the background said--"Yes, maybe it is, kid!"
The kid's eyes searched for a moment among the men. "I'll bet fifty
dollars it is an ace," he said.
Another voice asked--"American money?"
"Yes," answered the kid.
"Oh!" There was a genial laugh at this discomfiture. However, no one
came forward at the kid's challenge, and presently he turned to the
cup. "Now, I'll show you." With the manner of a mayor unveiling a
statue, he lifted the cup. There was revealed naught but a ten-spot. In
the roar which arose could be heard each man ridiculing the cowardice
of his neighbour, and above all the din rang the voice of Freddie
be-rating every one. "Why, there isn't one liver to every five men in
the outfit. That was the greatest cold bluff I ever saw worked. He
wouldn't know how to cheat with dice if he wanted to. Don't know the
first thing about it. I could hardly keep from laughin' when I seen
him drillin' you around. Why, I tell you, I had that fifty dollars
right in my pocket if I wanted to be a chump. You're an easy lot----"
Nevertheless the group who had won in the theatre-box game did not
relinquish their triumph. They burst like a storm about the head of
the kid, swinging at him with their fists. "'Five white mice'!" they
quoted, choking. "'Five white mice'!"
"Oh, they are not so bad," said the kid.
Afterward it often occurred that a man would jeer a finger at the kid
and derisively say--"'Five white mice.'"
On the route from the dinner to the circus, others of the party often
asked the kid if he had really intended to make his appeal to mice.
They suggested other animals--rabbits, dogs, hedgehogs, snakes,
opossums. To this banter the kid replied with a serious expression
of his belief in the fidelity and wisdom of the five white mice. He
presented a most eloquent case, decorated with fine language and
insults, in which he proved that if one was going to believe in
anything at all, one might as well choose the five white mice. His
companions, however, at once and unanimously pointed out to him that
his recent exploit did not place him in the light of a convincing
advocate.
The kid discerned two figures in the street. They were making imperious
signs at him. He waited for them to approach, for he recognized one as
the other kid--the Frisco kid: there were two kids. With the Frisco kid
was Benson. They arrived almost breathless. "Where you been?" cried
the Frisco kid. It was an arrangement that upon a meeting the one that
could first ask this question was entitled to use a tone of limitless
injury. "What you been doing? Where you going? Come on with us. Benson
and I have got a little scheme."
The New York kid pulled his arm from the grapple of the other. "I
can't. I've got to take these sutlers to the circus. They stuck me for
it shaking dice at Freddie's. I can't, I tell you."
The two did not at first attend to his remarks. "Come on! We've got a
little scheme."
"I can't. They stuck me. I've got to take'm to the circus."
At this time it did not suit the men with the scheme to recognize these
objections as important. "Oh, take'm some other time. Well, can't you
take'm some other time? Let 'em go. Damn the circus. Get cold feet.
What did you get stuck for? Get cold feet."
But despite their fighting, the New York kid broke away from them. "I
can't, I tell you. They stuck me." As he left them, they yelled with
rage. "Well, meet us, now, do you hear? In the Casa Verde as soon as
the circus quits! Hear?" They threw maledictions after him.
In the city of Mexico, a man goes to the circus without descending in
any way to infant amusements, because the Circo Teatro Orrin is one
of the best in the world, and too easily surpasses anything of the
kind in the United States, where it is merely a matter of a number of
rings, if possible, and a great professional agreement to lie to the
public. Moreover, the American clown, who in the Mexican arena prances
and gabbles, is the clown to whom writers refer as the delight of their
childhood, and lament that he is dead. At this circus the kid was not
debased by the sight of mournful prisoner elephants and caged animals
forlorn and sickly. He sat in his box until late, and laughed and swore
when past laughing at the comic foolish-wise clown.
When he returned to the Casa Verde there was no display of the Frisco
kid and Benson. Freddie was leaning on the bar listening to four men
terribly discuss a question that was not plain. There was a card-game
in the corner, of course. Sounds of revelry pealed from the rear rooms.
When the kid asked Freddie if he had seen his friend and Benson,
Freddie looked bored. "Oh, yes, they were in here just a minute ago,
but I don't know where they went. They've got their skates on. Where've
they been? Came in here rolling across the floor like two little gilt
gods. They wobbled around for a time, and then Frisco wanted me to send
six bottles of wine around to Benson's rooms, but I didn't have anybody
to send this time of night, and so they got mad and went out. Where did
they get their loads?"
In the first deep gloom of the street the kid paused a moment debating.
But presently he heard quavering voices. "Oh, kid! kid! Com'ere!"
Peering, he recognized two vague figures against the opposite wall. He
crossed the street, and they said--"Hello-kid."
"Say, where did you get it?" he demanded sternly. "You Indians better
go home. What did you want to get scragged for?" His face was luminous
with virtue.
As they swung to and fro, they made angry denials. "We ain' load'! We
ain' load'. Big chump. Comonangetadrink."
The sober youth turned then to his friend. "Hadn't you better go home,
kid? Come on, it's late. You'd better break away."
The Frisco kid wagged his head decisively. "Got take Benson home first.
He'll be wallowing around in a minute. Don't mind me. I'm all right."
"Cerly, he's all right," said Benson, arousing from deep thought. "He's
all right. But better take'm home, though. That's ri--right. He's
load'. But he's all right. No need go home any more'n you. But better
take'm home. He's load'." He looked at his companion with compassion.
"Kid, you're load'."
The sober kid spoke abruptly to his friend from San Francisco. "Kid,
pull yourself together, now. Don't fool. We've got to brace this ass of
a Benson all the way home. Get hold of his other arm."
The Frisco kid immediately obeyed his comrade without a word or a
glower. He seized Benson and came to attention like a soldier. Later,
indeed, he meekly ventured--"Can't we take cab?" But when the New York
kid snapped out that there were no convenient cabs he subsided to an
impassive silence. He seemed to be reflecting upon his state, without
astonishment, dismay, or any particular emotion. He submitted himself
woodenly to the direction of his friend.
Benson had protested when they had grasped his arms. "Washa doing?"
he said in a new and guttural voice. "Washa doing? I ain' load'.
Comonangetadrink. I----"
"Oh, come along, you idiot," said the New York kid. The Frisco kid
merely presented the mien of a stoic to the appeal of Benson, and
in silence dragged away at one of his arms. Benson's feet came from
that particular spot on the pavement with the reluctance of roots and
also with the ultimate suddenness of roots. The three of them lurched
out into the street in the abandon of tumbling chimneys. Benson was
meanwhile noisily challenging the others to produce any reasons for his
being taken home. His toes clashed into the kerb when they reached the
other side of the calle, and for a moment the kids hauled him along
with the points of his shoes scraping musically on the pavement. He
balked formidably as they were about to pass the Casa Verde. "No! No!
Leshavanothdrink! Anothdrink! Onemore!"
But the Frisco kid obeyed the voice of his partner in a manner that was
blind but absolute, and they scummed Benson on past the door. Locked
together the three swung into a dark street. The sober kid's flank was
continually careering ahead of the other wing. He harshly admonished
the Frisco child, and the latter promptly improved in the same manner
of unthinking complete obedience. Benson began to recite the tale of a
love affair, a tale that didn't even have a middle. Occasionally the
New York kid swore. They toppled on their way like three comedians
playing at it on the stage.
At midnight a little Mexican street burrowing among the walls of the
city is as dark as a whale's throat at deep sea. Upon this occasion
heavy clouds hung over the capital and the sky was a pall. The
projecting balconies could make no shadows.
"Shay," said Benson, breaking away from his escort suddenly, "what
want gome for? I ain't load'. You got reg'lar spool-fact'ry in your
head--you N' York kid there. Thish oth' kid, he's mos' proper shober,
mos' proper shober. He's drunk, but--but he's shober."
"Ah, shup up, Benson," said the New York kid. "Come along now. We can't
stay here all night." Benson refused to be corralled, but spread his
legs and twirled like a dervish, meanwhile under the evident impression
that he was conducting himself most handsomely. It was not long before
he gained the opinion that he was laughing at the others. "Eight purple
dogsh--dogs! Eight purple dogs. Thas what kid'll see in the morn'. Look
ou' for 'em. They--"
As Benson, describing the canine phenomena, swung wildly across the
sidewalk, it chanced that three other pedestrians were passing in
shadowy rank. Benson's shoulder jostled one of them.
A Mexican wheeled upon the instant. His hand flashed to his hip. There
was a moment of silence, during which Benson's voice was not heard
raised in apology. Then an indescribable comment, one burning word,
came from between the Mexican's teeth.
Benson, rolling about in a semi-detached manner, stared vacantly at
the Mexican, who thrust his lean face forward while his fingers played
nervously at his hip. The New York kid could not follow Spanish well,
but he understood when the Mexican breathed softly: "Does the señor
want to fight?"
Benson simply gazed in gentle surprise. The woman next to him at
dinner had said something inventive. His tailor had presented his