The Open Boat and Other Stories
He stepped forward. "Git yer d--n swords," he commanded. "Git yer
swords. Git 'em quick! I'll fight wi' che! I'll fight wid anyting, too!
See? I'll fight yeh wid a knife an' fork if yeh say so! I'll fight yer
standin' up er sittin' down!" Patsy delivered this intense oration
with sweeping, intensely emphatic gestures, his hands stretched out
eloquently, his jaw thrust forward, his eyes glaring.
"Ah," cried the little Cuban joyously. "Ah, you are in very pretty
temper. Ah, how I will cut your heart in two piece, my dear, d-e-a-r
friend." His eyes, too, shone like carbuncles, with a swift, changing
glitter, always fastened upon Patsy's face.
The two peacemakers were perspiring and in despair. One of them blurted
out--
"Well, I'll be blamed if this ain't the most ridiculous thing I ever
saw."
The other said--"For ten dollars I'd be tempted to let these two
infernal blockheads have their duel."
Patsy was strutting to and fro, and conferring grandly with his friends.
"He took me for a muff. He tought he was goin' t' bluff me out, talkin'
'bout swords. He'll get fooled." He addressed the Cuban--"You're a fine
little dirty picter of a scrapper, ain't che? I'll chew yez up, dat's
what I will."
There began then some rapid action. The patience of well-dressed men
is not an eternal thing. It began to look as if it would at last be a
fight with six corners to it. The faces of the men were shining red
with anger. They jostled each other defiantly, and almost every one
blazed out at three or four of the others. The bar-tender had given up
protesting. He swore for a time, and banged his glasses. Then he jumped
the bar and ran out of the saloon, cursing sullenly.
When he came back with a policeman, Patsy and the Cuban were preparing
to depart together. Patsy was delivering his last oration--
"I'll fight yer wid swords! Sure I will! Come ahead, Dago! I'll fight
yeh anywheres wid anyting! We'll have a large, juicy scrap, an' don't
yeh forgit dat! I'm right wid yez. I ain't no muff! I scrap wid a man
jest as soon as he ses scrap, an' if yeh wanta scrap, I'm yer kitten.
Understan' dat?"
The policeman said sharply--"Come, now; what's all this?" He had a
distinctly business air.
The little Cuban stepped forward calmly. "It is none of your business."
The policeman flushed to his ears. "What?"
One well-dressed man touched the other on the sleeve. "Here's the time
to skip," he whispered. They halted a block away from the saloon and
watched the policeman pull the Cuban through the door. There was a
minute of scuffle on the sidewalk, and into this deserted street at
midnight fifty people appeared at once as if from the sky to watch it.
At last the three Cherry Hill men came from the saloon, and swaggered
with all their old valour toward the peacemakers.
"Ah," said Patsy to them, "he was so hot talkin' about this duel
business, but I would a-given 'im a great scrap, an' don't yeh forgit
it."
For Patsy was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could throw a
shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral.
AN OMINOUS BABY
A baby was wandering in a strange country. He was a tattered child with
a frowsled wealth of yellow hair. His dress, of a checked stuff, was
soiled, and showed the marks of many conflicts, like the chain-shirt
of a warrior. His sun-tanned knees shone above wrinkled stockings,
which he pulled up occasionally with an impatient movement when they
entangled his feet. From a gaping shoe there appeared an array of tiny
toes.
He was toddling along an avenue between rows of stolid brown houses.
He went slowly, with a look of absorbed interest on his small flushed
face. His blue eyes stared curiously. Carriages went with a musical
rumble over the smooth asphalt. A man with a chrysanthemum was going
up steps. Two nursery maids chatted as they walked slowly, while their
charges hobnobbed amiably between perambulators. A truck wagon roared
thunderously in the distance.
The child from the poor district made his way along the brown street
filled with dull grey shadows. High up, near the roofs, glancing
sun-rays changed cornices to blazing gold and silvered the fronts of
windows. The wandering baby stopped and stared at the two children
laughing and playing in their carriages among the heaps of rugs and
cushions. He braced his legs apart in an attitude of earnest attention.
His lower jaw fell, and disclosed his small, even teeth. As they moved
on, he followed the carriages with awe in his face as if contemplating
a pageant. Once one of the babies, with twittering laughter, shook a
gorgeous rattle at him. He smiled jovially in return.
Finally a nursery maid ceased conversation and, turning, made a gesture
of annoyance.
"Go 'way, little boy," she said to him. "Go 'way. You're all dirty."
He gazed at her with infant tranquillity for a moment, and then went
slowly off dragging behind him a bit of rope he had acquired in another
street. He continued to investigate the new scenes. The people and
houses struck him with interest as would flowers and trees. Passengers
had to avoid the small, absorbed figure in the middle of the sidewalk.
They glanced at the intent baby face covered with scratches and dust as
with scars and with powder smoke.
After a time, the wanderer discovered upon the pavement a pretty child
in fine clothes playing with a toy. It was a tiny fire-engine, painted
brilliantly in crimson and gold. The wheels rattled as its small owner
dragged it uproariously about by means of a string. The babe with his
bit of rope trailing behind him paused and regarded the child and
the toy. For a long while he remained motionless, save for his eyes,
which followed all movements of the glittering thing. The owner paid
no attention to the spectator, but continued his joyous imitations of
phases of the career of a fire-engine. His gleeful baby laugh rang
against the calm fronts of the houses. After a little the wandering
baby began quietly to sidle nearer. His bit of rope, now forgotten,
dropped at his feet. He removed his eyes from the toy and glanced
expectantly at the other child.
"Say," he breathed softly.
The owner of the toy was running down the walk at top speed. His tongue
was clanging like a bell and his legs were galloping. He did not look
around at the coaxing call from the small tattered figure on the curb.
The wandering baby approached still nearer, and presently spoke again.
"Say," he murmured, "le' me play wif it?"
The other child interrupted some shrill tootings. He bended his head
and spoke disdainfully over his shoulder.
"No," he said.
The wanderer retreated to the curb. He failed to notice the bit of
rope, once treasured. His eyes followed as before the winding course of
the engine, and his tender mouth twitched.
"Say," he ventured at last, "is dat yours?"
"Yes," said the other, tilting his round chin. He drew his property
suddenly behind him as if it were menaced. "Yes," he repeated, "it's
mine."
"Well, le' me play wif it?" said the wandering baby, with a trembling
note of desire in his voice.
"No," cried the pretty child with determined lips. "It's mine. My ma-ma
buyed it."
"Well, tan't I play wif it?" His voice was a sob. He stretched forth
little covetous hands.
"No," the pretty child continued to repeat. "No, it's mine."
"Well, I want to play wif it," wailed the other. A sudden fierce frown
mantled his baby face. He clenched his fat hands and advanced with a
formidable gesture. He looked some wee battler in a war.
"It's mine! It's mine," cried the pretty child, his voice in the treble
of outraged rights.
"I want it," roared the wanderer.
"It's mine! It's mine!"
"I want it!"
"It's mine!"
The pretty child retreated to the fence, and there paused at bay. He
protected his property with outstretched arms. The small vandal made a
charge. There was a short scuffle at the fence. Each grasped the string
to the toy and tugged. Their faces were wrinkled with baby rage, the
verge of tears. Finally, the child in tatters gave a supreme tug and
wrenched the string from the other's hands. He set off rapidly down the
street, bearing the toy in his arms. He was weeping with the air of
a wronged one who has at last succeeded in achieving his rights. The
other baby was squalling lustily. He seemed quite helpless. He rung his
chubby hands and railed.
After the small barbarian had got some distance away, he paused and
regarded his booty. His little form curved with pride. A soft, gleeful
smile loomed through the storm of tears. With great care he prepared
the toy for travelling. He stopped a moment on a corner and gazed at
the pretty child, whose small figure was quivering with sobs. As the
latter began to show signs of beginning pursuit, the little vandal
turned and vanished down a dark side street as into a cavern.
A GREAT MISTAKE
An Italian kept a fruit-stand on a corner where he had good aim at the
people who came down from the elevated station, and at those who went
along two thronged streets. He sat most of the day in a backless chair
that was placed strategically.
There was a babe living hard by, up five flights of stairs, who
regarded this Italian as a tremendous being. The babe had investigated
this fruit-stand. It had thrilled him as few things he had met with in
his travels had thrilled him. The sweets of the world had laid there
in dazzling rows, tumbled in luxurious heaps. When he gazed at this
Italian seated amid such splendid treasures, his lower lip hung low and
his eyes, raised to the vendor's face, were filled with deep respect,
worship, as if he saw omnipotence.
The babe came often to this corner. He hovered about the stand
and watched each detail of the business. He was fascinated by the
tranquillity of the vendor, the majesty of power and possession. At
times he was so engrossed in his contemplation that people, hurrying,
had to use care to avoid bumping him down.
He had never ventured very near to the stand. It was his habit to
hang warily about the curb. Even there he resembled a babe who looks
unbidden at a feast of gods.
One day, however, as the baby was thus staring, the vendor arose, and
going along the front of the stand, began to polish oranges with a
red pocket handkerchief. The breathless spectator moved across the
side walk until his small face almost touched the vendor's sleeve. His
fingers were gripped in a fold of his dress.
At last, the Italian finished with the oranges and returned to his
chair. He drew a newspaper printed in his language from behind a bunch
of bananas. He settled himself in a comfortable position, and began to
glare savagely at the print. The babe was left face to face with the
massed joys of the world. For a time he was a simple worshipper at this
golden shrine. Then tumultuous desires began to shake him. His dreams
were of conquest. His lips moved. Presently into his head there came a
little plan. He sidled nearer, throwing swift and cunning glances at
the Italian. He strove to maintain his conventional manner, but the
whole plot was written upon his countenance.
At last he had come near enough to touch the fruit. From the tattered
skirt came slowly his small dirty hand. His eyes were still fixed upon
the vendor. His features were set, save for the under lip, which had a
faint fluttering movement. The hand went forward.
Elevated trains thundered to the station and the stairway poured people
upon the sidewalks. There was a deep sea roar from feet and wheels
going ceaselessly. None seemed to perceive the babe engaged in a great
venture.
The Italian turned his paper. Sudden panic smote the babe. His hand
dropped, and he gave vent to a cry of dismay. He remained for a moment