The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane

  “Was he hurt any? Did anybody hit him with a stone?”

  “Guess there isn’t much of him to hurt anymore, is there? Guess he’s been hurt up to the limit. No. They never touched him. Of course nobody really wanted to hit him, but you know how a crowd gets. It’s like—it’s like—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  For a moment the chief of the police looked reflectively at the floor. Then he spoke hesitatingly. “You know Jake Winter’s little girl was the one that he scared at the party. She is pretty sick, they say.”

  “Is she? Why, they didn’t call me. I always attend the Winter family.”

  “No? Didn’t they?” asked the chief, slowly. “Well—you know—Winter is—well, Winter has gone clean crazy over this business. He wanted—he wanted to have you arrested.”

  “Have me arrested? The idiot! What in the name of wonder could he have me arrested for?”

  “Of course. He is a fool. I told him to keep his trap shut. But then you know how he’ll go all over town yapping about the thing. I thought I’d better tip you.”

  “Oh, he is of no consequence; but then, of course, I’m obliged to you, Sam.”

  “That’s all right. Well, you’ll be down tonight and take him out, eh? You’ll get a good welcome from the jailer. He don’t like his job for a cent. He says you can have your man whenever you want him. He’s got no use for him.”

  “But what is this business of Winter’s about having me arrested?”

  “Oh, it’s a lot of chin about your having no right to allow this—this—this man to be at large. But I told him to tend to his own business. Only I thought I’d better let you know. And I might as well say right now, doctor, that there is a good deal of talk about this thing. If I were you, I’d come to the jail pretty late at night, because there is likely to be a crowd around the door, and I’d bring a—er—mask, or some kind of a veil, anyhow.”

  XIX

  Martha Goodwin was single, and well along into the thin years. She lived with her married sister in Whilomville. She performed nearly all the housework in exchange for the privilege of existence. Every one tacitly recognized her labor as a form of penance for the early end of her betrothed, who had died of smallpox, which he had not caught from her.

  But despite the strenuous and unceasing workaday of her life, she was a woman of great mind. She had adamantine opinions upon the situation in Armenia, the condition of women in China, the flirtation between Mrs. Minster of Niagara Avenue and young Griscom, the conflict in the Bible class of the Baptist Sunday school, the duty of the United States toward the Cuban insurgents, and many other colossal matters. Her fullest experience of violence was gained on an occasion when she had seen a hound clubbed, but in the plan which she had made for the reform of the world she advocated drastic measures. For instance, she contended that all the Turks should be pushed into the sea and drowned, and that Mrs. Minster and young Griscom should be hanged side by side on twin gallows. In fact, this woman of peace, who had seen only peace, argued constantly for a creed of illimitable ferocity. She was invulnerable on these questions, because eventually she overrode all opponents with a sniff. This sniff was an active force. It was to her antagonists like a bang over the head, and none was known to recover from this expression of exalted contempt. It left them windless and conquered. They never again came forward as candidates for suppression. And Martha walked her kitchen with a stern brow, an invincible being like Napoleon.

  Nevertheless her acquaintances, from the pain of their defeats, had been long in secret revolt. It was in no wise a conspiracy, because they did not care to state their open rebellion, but nevertheless it was understood that any woman who could not coincide with one of Martha’s contentions was entitled to the support of others in the small circle. It amounted to an arrangement by which all were required to disbelieve any theory for which Martha fought. This, however, did not prevent them from speaking of her mind with profound respect.

  Two people bore the brunt of her ability. Her sister Kate was visibly afraid of her, while Carrie Dungen sailed across from her kitchen to sit respectfully at Martha’s feet and learn the business of the world. To be sure, afterward, under another sun, she always laughed at Martha and pretended to deride her ideas, but in the presence of the sovereign she always remained silent or admiring. Kate, the sister, was of no consequence at all. Her principal delusion was that she did all the work in the upstairs rooms of the house, while Martha did it downstairs. The truth was seen only by the husband, who treated Martha with a kindness that was half banter, half deference. Martha herself had no suspicion that she was the only pillar of the domestic edifice. The situation was without definitions. Martha made definitions, but she devoted them entirely to the Armenians and Griscom and the Chinese and other subjects. Her dreams, which in early days had been of love, of meadows and the shade of trees, of the face of a man, were now involved otherwise, and they were companioned in the kitchen curiously, Cuba, the hot-water kettle, Armenia, the washing of the dishes, and the whole thing being jumbled. In regard to social misdemeanors, she who was simply the mausoleum of a dead passion was probably the most savage critic in town. This unknown woman, hidden in a kitchen as in a well, was sure to have a considerable effect of the one kind or the other in the life of the town. Every time it moved a yard, she had personally contributed an inch. She could hammer so stoutly upon the door of a proposition that it would break from its hinges and fall upon her, but at any rate it moved. She was an engine, and the fact that she did not know that she was an engine contributed largely to the effect. One reason that she was formidable was that she did not even imagine that she was formidable. She remained a weak, innocent, and pig-headed creature, who alone would defy the universe if she thought the universe merited this proceeding.

  One day Carrie Dungen came across from her kitchen with speed. She had a great deal of grist. “Oh,” she cried, “Henry Johnson got away from where they was keeping him, and came to town last night, and scared everybody almost to death.”

  Martha was shining a dishpan, polishing madly. No reasonable person could see cause for this operation, because the pan already glistened like silver. “Well!” she ejaculated. She imparted to the word a deep meaning. “This, my prophecy, has come to pass.” It was a habit.

  The overplus of information was choking Carrie. Before she could go on she was obliged to struggle for a moment. “And, oh, little Sadie Winter is awful sick, and they say Jake Winter was around this morning trying to get Doctor Trescott arrested. And poor old Mrs. Farragut sprained her ankle in trying to climb a fence. And there’s a crowd around the jail all the time. They put Henry in jail because they didn’t know what else to do with him, I guess. They say he is perfectly terrible.”

  Martha finally released the dishpan and confronted the headlong speaker. “Well!” she said again, poising a great brown rag. Kate had heard the excited newcomer, and drifted down from the novel in her room. She was a shivery little woman. Her shoulder blades seemed to be two panes of ice, for she was constantly shrugging and shrugging. “Serves him right if he was to lose all his patients,” she said suddenly, in bloodthirsty tones. She snipped her words out as if her lips were scissors.

  “Well, he’s likely to,” shouted Carrie Dungen. “Don’t a lot of people say that they won’t have him any more? If you’re sick and nervous, Doctor Trescott would scare the life out of you, wouldn’t he? He would me. I’d keep thinking.”

  Martha, stalking to and fro, sometimes surveyed the two other women with a contemplative frown.

  XX

  After the return from Connecticut, little Jimmie was at first much afraid of the monster who lived in the room over the carriage-house. He could not identify it in any way. Gradually, however, his fear dwindled under the influence of a weird fascination. He sidled into closer and closer relations with it.

  One time the monster was seated on a box behind the stable basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. A heavy crêpe veil was swathed about its head
.

  Little Jimmie and many companions came around the corner of the stable. They were all in what was popularly known as the baby class, and consequently escaped from school a half-hour before the other children. They halted abruptly at sight of the figure on the box. Jimmie waved his hand with the air of a proprietor.

  “There he is,” he said.

  “O-o-o!” murmured all the little boys—“o-oo-!” They shrank back and grouped according to courage or experience, as at the sound the monster slowly turned its head. Jimmie had remained in the van alone. “Don’t be afraid! I won’t let him hurt you,” he said, delighted.

  “Huh!” they replied, contemptuously. “We ain’t afraid.”

  Jimmie seemed to reap all the joys of the owner and exhibitor of one of the world’s marvels, while his audience remained at a distance—awed and entranced, fearful and envious.

  One of them addressed Jimmie gloomily. “Bet you dassent walk right up to him.” He was an older boy than Jimmie, and habitually oppressed him to a small degree. This new social elevation of the smaller lad probably seemed revolutionary to him.

  “Huh!” said Jimmie, with deep scorn. “Dassent I? Dassent I, hey? Dassent I?”

  The group was immensely excited. It turned its eyes upon the boy that Jimmie addressed. “No, you dassent,” he said, stolidly, facing a moral defeat. He could see that Jimmie was resolved. “No, you dassent,” he repeated, doggedly.

  “Ho?” cried Jimmie. “You just watch!—you just watch!”

  Amid a silence he turned and marched toward the monster. But possibly the palpable wariness of his companions had an effect upon him that weighed more than his previous experience, for suddenly, when near to the monster, he halted dubiously. But his playmates immediately uttered a derisive shout, and it seemed to force him forward. He went to the monster and laid his hand delicately on its shoulder. “Hello, Henry,” he said, in a voice that trembled a trifle. The monster was crooning a weird line of negro melody that was scarcely more than a thread of sound, and it paid no heed to the boy.

  Jimmie strutted back to his companions. They acclaimed him and hooted his opponent. Amid this clamor the larger boy with difficulty preserved a dignified attitude.

  “I dassent, dassent I?” said Jimmie to him. “Now, you’re so smart, let’s see you do it!”

  This challenge brought forth renewed taunts from the others. The larger boy puffed out his cheeks. “Well, I ain’t afraid,” he explained, sullenly. He had made a mistake in diplomacy, and now his small enemies were tumbling his prestige all about his ears. They crowed like roosters and bleated like lambs, and made many other noises which were supposed to bury him in ridicule and dishonor. “Well, I ain’t afraid,” he continued to explain through the din.

  Jimmie, the hero of the mob, was pitiless. “You ain’t afraid, hey?” he sneered. “If you ain’t afraid, go do it, then.”

  “Well, I would if I wanted to,” the other retorted. His eyes wore an expression of profound misery, but he preserved steadily other portions of a pot-valiant air. He suddenly faced one of his persecutors. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you go do it?” This persecutor sank promptly through the group to the rear. The incident gave the badgered one a breathing spell, and for a moment even turned the derision in another direction. He took advantage of his interval. “I’ll do it if anybody else will,” he announced, swaggering to and fro.

  Candidates for the adventure did not come forward. To defend themselves from this countercharge, the other boys again set up their crowing and bleating. For a while they would hear nothing from him. Each time he opened his lips their chorus of noises made oratory impossible. But at last he was able to repeat that he would volunteer to dare as much in the affair as any other boy.

  “Well, you go first,” they shouted.

  But Jimmie intervened to once more lead the populace against the large boy. “You’re mighty brave, ain’t you?” he said to him. “You dared me to do it, and I did—didn’t I? Now who’s afraid?” The others cheered this view loudly, and they instantly resumed the baiting of the large boy.

  He shamefacedly scratched his left shin with his right foot. “Well, I ain’t afraid.” He cast an eye at the monster. “Well, I ain’t afraid.” With a glare of hatred at his squalling tormentors, he finally announced a grim intention. “Well, I’ll do it, then, since you’re so fresh. Now!”

  The mob subsided as with a formidable countenance he turned toward the impassive figure on the box. The advance was also a regular progression from high daring to craven hesitation. At last, when some yards from the monster, the lad came to a full halt, as if he had encountered a stone wall. The observant little boys in the distance promptly hooted. Stung again by these cries, the lad sneaked two yards forward. He was crouched like a young cat ready for a backward spring. The crowd at the rear, beginning to respect this display, uttered some encouraging cries. Suddenly the lad gathered himself together, made a white and desperate rush forward, touched the monster’s shoulder with a far-outstretched finger, and sped away, while his laughter rang out wild, shrill, and exultant.

  The crowd of boys reverenced him at once, and began to throng into his camp, and look at him, and be his admirers. Jimmie was discomfited for a moment, but he and the larger boy, without agreement or word of any kind, seemed to recognize a truce, and they swiftly combined and began to parade before the others.

  “Why, it’s just as easy as nothing,” puffed the larger boy. “Ain’t it, Jim?”

  “Course,” blew Jimmie. “Why, it’s as e-e-easy.”

  They were people of another class. If they had been decorated for courage on twelve battlefields, they could not have made the other boys more ashamed of the situation.

  Meanwhile they condescended to explain the emotions of the excursion, expressing unqualified contempt for any one who could hang back. “Why, it ain’t nothin’. He won’t do nothin’ to you,” they told the others, in tones of exasperation,

  One of the very smallest boys in the party showed signs of a wistful desire to distinguish himself, and they turned their attention to him, pushing at his shoulders while he swung away from them, and hesitated dreamily. He was eventually induced to make furtive expedition, but it was only for a few yards. Then he paused, motionless, gazing with open mouth. The vociferous entreaties of Jimmie and the large boy had no power over him.

  Mrs. Hannigan had come out on her back porch with a pail of water. From this coign she had a view of the secluded portion of the Trescott grounds that was behind the stable. She perceived the group of boys, and the monster on the box. She shaded her eyes with her hand to benefit her vision. She screeched then as if she was being murdered. “Eddie! Eddie! You come home this minute!”

  Her son querulously demanded, “Aw, what for?”

  “You come home this minute. Do you hear?”

  The other boys seemed to think this visitation upon one of their number required them to preserve for a time the hang-dog air of a collection of culprits, and they remained in guilty silence until the little Hannigan, wrathfully protesting, was pushed through the door of his home. Mrs. Hannigan cast a piercing glance over the group, stared with a bitter face at the Trescott house, as if this new and handsome edifice was insulting her, and then followed her son.

  There was wavering in the party. An inroad by one mother always caused them to carefully sweep the horizon to see if there were more coming. “This is my yard,” said Jimmie, proudly. “We don’t have to go home.”

  The monster on the box had turned its black crêpe countenance toward the sky, and was waving its arms in time to a religious chant. “Look at him now,” cried a little boy. They turned, and were transfixed by the solemnity and mystery of the indefinable gestures. The wail of the melody was mournful and slow. They drew back. It seemed to spellbind them with the power of a funeral. They were so absorbed that they did not hear the doctor’s buggy drive up to the stable. Trescott got out, tied his horse, and approached the group. Jimmie saw him first, and a
t his look of dismay the others wheeled.

  “What’s all this, Jimmie?” asked Trescott, in surprise.

  The lad advanced to the front of his companions, halted, and said nothing. Trescott’s face gloomed slightly as he scanned the scene.

  “What were you doing, Jimmie?”

  “We was playin’,” answered Jimmie, huskily.

  “Playing at what?”

  “Just playin’.”

  Trescott looked gravely at the other boys, and asked them to please go home. They proceeded to the street much in the manner of frustrated and revealed assassins. The crime of trespass on another boy’s place was still a crime when they had only accepted the other boy’s cordial invitation, and they were used to being sent out of all manner of gardens upon the sudden appearance of a father or a mother. Jimmie had wretchedly watched the departure of his companions. It involved the loss of his position as a lad who controlled the privileges of his father’s grounds, but then he knew that in the beginning he had no right to ask so many boys to be his guests.

  Once on the sidewalk, however, they speedily forgot their shame as trespassers, and the large boy launched forth in a description of his success in the late trial of courage. As they went rapidly up the street, the little boy who had made the furtive expedition cried out confidently from the rear, “Yes, and I went almost up to him, didn’t I, Willie?”

  The large boy crushed him in a few words. “Huh!” he scoffed. “You only went a little way. I went clear up to him.”