The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (181 page)

“Aw, go on,” retorted Jimmie, profanely. “Go soak your head, Pete.”

The remaining boys retired to the street, whereupon they perceived Willie Dalzel in the distance. He ran to them.

“I licked him!” he shouted, exultantly. “I licked him! Didn’t I, now?”

From the Whilomville point of view he was entitled to a favorable answer. They made it. “Yes,” they said, “you did.”

“I run in,” cried Willie, “an’ I grabbed ‘im, an’ afore he knew what it was I throwed ‘im. An’ then it was easy.” He puffed out his chest and smiled like an English recruiting-sergeant. “An’ now,” said he, suddenly facing Jimmie Trescott, “whose side were you on?”

The question was direct and startling. Jimmie gave back two paces. “He licked you once,” he explained, haltingly.

“He never saw the day when he could lick one side of me. I could lick him with my left hand tied behind me. Why, I could lick him when I was asleep.” Willie Dalzel was magnificent.

A gate clicked, and Johnnie Hedge was seen to be strolling towards them.

“You said,” he remarked, coldly, “you licked me, didn’t you?”

Willie Dalzel stood his ground. “Yes,” he said, stoutly.

“Well, you’re a liar,” said the Hedge boy.

“You’re another,” retorted Willie.

“No, I ain’t, either, but
you’re
a liar.”

“You’re another,” retorted Willie.

“Don’t you dare tell
me
I’m a liar, or I’ll smack your mouth for you,” said the Hedge boy.

“Well, I did, didn’t I?” barked Willie. “An’ whatche goin’ to do about it?”

“I’m goin’ to lam you,” said the Hedge boy.

He approached to attack warily, and the other boys held their breaths. Willie Dalzel winced back a pace. “Hol’ on a minute,” he cried, raising his palm. “I’m not—”

“ONE APPROACHING FROM BEHIND LAID HOLD OF HIS EAR”

But the comic windmill was again in motion, and between gasps from his exertions Johnnie Hedge remarked, “I’ll show — you — whether — you kin — lick me — or not.”

The first blows did not reach home on Willie, for he backed away with expedition, keeping up his futile cry, “Hol’ on a minute.” Soon enough a swinging fist landed on his cheek. It did not knock him down, but it hurt him a little and frightened him a great deal. He suddenly opened his mouth to an amazing and startling extent, tilted back his head, and howled, while his eyes, glittering with tears, were fixed upon this scowling butcher of a Johnnie Hedge. The latter was making slow and vicious circles, evidently intending to renew the massacre.

But the spectators really had been desolated and shocked by the terrible thing which had happened to Willie Dalzel. They now cried out: “No, no; don’t hit ‘im any more! Don’t hit ‘im any more!”

Jimmie Trescott, in a panic of bravery, yelled, “We’ll all jump on you if you do.”

The Hedge boy paused, at bay. He breathed angrily, and flashed his glance from lad to lad.
They still protested: “No, no; don’t hit ‘im any more. Don’t hit ‘im no more.”

“I’ll hammer him until he can’t stand up,” said Johnnie, observing that they all feared him. “I’ll fix him so he won’t know hisself, an’ if any of you kids bother with
me
—”

Suddenly he ceased, he trembled, he collapsed. The hand of one approaching from behind had laid hold upon his ear, and it was the hand of one whom he knew.

The other lads heard a loud, iron-filing voice say, “Caught ye at it again, ye brat, ye.” They saw a dreadful woman with gray hair, with a sharp red nose, with bare arms, with spectacles of such magnifying quality that her eyes shone through them like two fierce white moons. She was Johnnie Hedge’s mother. Still holding Johnnie by the ear, she swung out swiftly and dexterously, and succeeded in boxing the ears of two boys before the crowd regained its presence of mind and stampeded. Yes, the war for supremacy was over, and the question was never again disputed. The supreme power was Mrs. Hedge.

A
LITTLE
PILGRIMAGE

ONE November it became clear to childish minds in certain parts of Whilomville that the Sunday-school of the Presbyterian church would not have for the children the usual tree on Christmas eve. The funds free for that ancient festival would be used for the relief of suffering among the victims of the Charleston earthquake.

The plan had been born in the generous head of the superintendent of the Sunday-school, and during one session he had made a strong plea that the children should forego the vain pleasures of a tree and, in glorious application of the Golden Rule, refuse a local use of the fund, and will that it be sent where dire pain might be alleviated. At the end of a tearfully eloquent speech the question was put fairly to a vote, and the children in a burst of virtuous abandon carried the question for Charleston. Many of the teachers had been careful to preserve a finely neutral attitude, but even if they had cautioned the children against being too impetuous they could not have checked the wild impulses.

But this was a long time before Christmas.

Very early, boys held important speech together. “Huh! you ain’t goin’ to have no Christmas tree at the Presbyterian Sunday-school.”

Sullenly the victim answered, “No, we ain’t.”

“Huh!” scoffed the other denomination, “we are goin’ to have the all-firedest biggest tree that you ever saw in the world.”

The little Presbyterians were greatly downcast.

It happened that Jimmie Trescott had regularly attended the Presbyterian Sunday-school. The Trescotts were consistently undenominational, but they had sent their lad on Sundays to one of the places where they thought he would receive benefits. However, on one day in December, Jimmie appeared before his father and made a strong spiritual appeal to be forthwith attached to the Sunday-school of the Big Progressive church. Doctor Trescott mused this question considerably. “Well, Jim,” he said, “why do you conclude that the Big Progressive Sunday-school is better for you than the Presbyterian Sunday-school?”

“Now — it’s nicer,” answered Jimmie, looking at his father with an anxious eye.

“How do you mean?”

“Why — now — some of the boys what go to the Presbyterian place, they ain’t very nice,” explained the flagrant Jimmie.

Trescott mused the question considerably once more. In the end he said: “Well, you may change if you wish, this one time, but you must not be changing to and fro. You decide now, and then you must abide by your decision.”

“Yessir,” said Jimmie, brightly. “Big Progressive.”

“All right,” said the father. “But remember what I’ve told you.”

On the following Sunday morning Jimmie presented himself at the door of the basement of the Big Progressive church. He was conspicuously washed, notably raimented, prominently polished. And, incidentally, he was very uncomfortable because of all these virtues.

A number of acquaintances greeted him contemptuously. “Hello, Jimmie! What you doin’ here? Thought you was a Presbyterian?”

Jimmie cast down his eyes and made no reply. He was too cowed by the change. However, Homer Phelps, who was a regular patron of the Big Progressive Sunday-school, suddenly appeared and said, “Hello, Jim!” Jimmie seized upon him. Homer Phelps was amenable to Trescott laws, tribal if you like, but iron-bound, almost compulsory.

“Hello, Homer!” said Jimmie, and his manner was so good that Homer felt a great thrill in being able to show his superior a new condition of life.

“You ‘ain’t never come here afore, have you?” he demanded, with a new arrogance.

“No, I ‘ain’t,” said Jimmie. Then they stared at each other and manœuvred.

“You don’t know
my
teacher,” said Homer.

“No, I don’t know
her
” admitted Jimmie, but in a way which contended, modestly, that he knew countless other Sunday-school teachers.

“Better join our class,” said Homer, sagely. “She wears spectacles; don’t see very well. Sometimes we do almost what we like.”

“All right,” said Jimmie, glad to place himself in the hands of his friends. In due time they entered the Sunday-school room, where a man with benevolent whiskers stood on a platform and said, “We will now sing No. 33—’Pull for the Shore, Sailor, Pull for the Shore.’” And as the obedient throng burst into melody the man on the platform indicated the time with a fat, white, and graceful hand. He was an ideal Sunday-school superintendent — one who had never felt hunger or thirst or the wound of the challenge of dishonor; a man, indeed, with beautiful flat hands who waved them in greasy victorious beneficence over a crowd of children.

Jimmie, walking carefully on his toes, followed Homer Phelps. He felt that the kingly superintendent might cry out and blast him to ashes before he could reach a chair. It was a desperate journey. But at last he heard Homer muttering to a young lady, who looked at him through glasses which greatly magnified her eyes. “A new boy,” she said, in an oily and deeply religious voice.

“Yes’m,” said Jimmie, trembling. The five other boys of the class scanned him keenly and derided his condition.

“We will proceed to the lesson,” said the young lady. Then she cried sternly, like a sergeant, “The seventh chapter of Jeremiah!”

There was a swift fluttering of leaflets. Then the name of Jeremiah, a wise man, towered over the feelings of these boys. Homer Phelps was doomed to read the fourth verse. He took a deep breath, he puffed out his lips, he gathered his strength for a great effort. His beginning was childishly explosive. He hurriedly said:

“
Trust ye not in lying words, saying The temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, are these.
”

“Now,” said the teacher, “Johnnie Scanlan, tell us what these words mean.” The Scanlan boy shamefacedly muttered that he did not know. The teacher’s countenance saddened. Her heart was in her work; she wanted to make a success of this Sunday-school class. “Perhaps Homer Phelps can tell us,” she remarked.

Homer gulped; he looked at Jimmie. Through the great room hummed a steady hum. A little circle, very near, was being told about Daniel in the lion’s den. They were deeply moved. At the moment they liked Sunday-school.

“Why — now — it means,” said Homer, with a grand pomposity born of a sense of hopeless ignorance—”it means — why it means that they were in the wrong place.”

“No,” said the teacher, profoundly; “it means that we should be good, very good indeed. That is what it means. It means that we should love the Lord and be good. Love the Lord and be good. That is what it means.”

“THE PROFESSIONAL BRIGHT BOY OF THE CLASS SUDDENLY AWOKE”

The little boys suddenly had a sense of black wickedness as their teacher looked austerely upon them. They gazed at her with the wide-open eyes of simplicity. They were stirred again. This thing of being good — this great business of life — apparently it was always successful. They knew from the fairy tales. But it was difficult, wasn’t it? It was said to be the most heart-breaking task to be generous, wasn’t it? One had to pay the price of one’s eyes in order to be pacific, didn’t one? As for patience, it was tortured martyrdom to be patient, wasn’t it? Sin was simple, wasn’t it? But virtue was so difficult that it could only be practised by heavenly beings, wasn’t it?

And the angels, the Sunday-school superintendent, and the teacher swam in the high visions of the little boys as beings so good that if a boy scratched his shin in the same room he was a profane and sentenced devil.

“And,” said the teacher, “‘The temple of the Lord’ — what does that mean? I’ll ask the new boy. What does that mean?”

“I dun’no’,” said Jimmie, blankly.

But here the professional bright boy of the class suddenly awoke to his obligations. “Teacher,” he cried, “it means church, same as this.”

“Exactly,” said the teacher, deeply satisfied with this reply. “You know your lesson well, Clarence. I am much pleased.”

The other boys, instead of being envious, looked with admiration upon Clarence, while he adopted an air of being habituated to perform such feats every day of his life. Still, he was not much of a boy. He had the virtue of being able to walk on very high stilts, but when the season of stilts had passed he possessed no rank save this Sunday-school rank, this clever-little-Clarence business of knowing the Bible and the lesson better than the other boys. The other boys, sometimes looking at him meditatively, did not actually decide to thrash him as soon as he cleared the portals of the church, but they certainly decided to molest him in such ways as would re-establish their self-respect. Back of the superintendent’s chair hung a lithograph of the martyrdom of St. Stephen.

Jimmie, feeling stiff and encased in his best clothes, waited for the ordeal to end. A bell pealed: the fat hand of the superintendent had tapped a bell. Slowly the rustling and murmuring dwindled to silence. The benevolent man faced the school. “I have to announce,” he began, waving his body from side to side in the conventional bows of his kind, “that—” Bang went the bell. “Give me your attention, please, children. I have to announce that the Board has decided that this year there will be no Christmas tree, but the—”

Instantly the room buzzed with the subdued clamor of the children. Jimmie was speechless. He stood morosely during the singing of the closing hymn. He passed out into the street with the others, pushing no more than was required.

Speedily the whole idea left him. If he remembered Sunday-school at all, it was to remember that he did not like it.