Part 17 (1/2)

On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where there was a good deal of lamp-glare and polished wood to be seen from the outside, and within, the mellow light shone on much furbished bra.s.s and more polished wood. It was a better saloon than they were in the habit of seeing, but they did not mind it. They sat down at one of the little tables that were in a row parallel to the bar and ordered beer. They blinked stolidly at the decorations, the bartender, and the other customers. When anything transpired they discussed it with dazzling frankness, and what they said of it was as free as air to the other people in the place.

At midnight there were few people in the saloon. Patsy and his friends still sat drinking. Two well-dressed men were at another table, smoking cigars slowly and swinging back in their chairs. They occupied themselves with themselves in the usual manner, never betraying by a wink of an eyelid that they knew that other folk existed. At another table directly behind Patsy and his companions was a slim little Cuban, with miraculously small feet and hands, and with a youthful touch of down upon his lip. As he lifted his cigarette from time to time his little finger was bended in dainty fas.h.i.+on, and there was a green flash when a huge emerald ring caught the light. The bartender came often with his little bra.s.s tray. Occasionally Patsy and his two friends quarrelled.

Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight noise and Patsy turned his head to observe him. Then Patsy made a careless and rather loud comment to his two friends. He used a word which is no more than pa.s.sing the time of day down in Cherry Street, but to the Cuban it was a dagger-point. There was a harsh sc.r.a.ping sound as a chair was pushed swiftly back.

The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes were s.h.i.+ning with a rage that flashed there like sparks as he glared at Patsy. His olive face had turned a shade of grey from his anger. Withal his chest was thrust out in portentous dignity, and his hand, still grasping his wine-gla.s.s, was cool and steady, the little finger still bended, the great emerald gleaming upon it. The others, motionless, stared at him.

”Sir,” he began ceremoniously. He spoke gravely and in a slow way, his tone coming in a marvel of self-possessed cadences from between those lips which quivered with wrath. ”You have insult me. You are a dog, a hound, a cur. I spit upon you. I must have some of your blood.”

Patsy looked at him over his shoulder.

”What's th' matter wi' che?” he demanded. He did not quite understand the words of this little man who glared at him steadily, but he knew that it was something about fighting. He snarled with the readiness of his cla.s.s and heaved his shoulders contemptuously. ”Ah, what's eatin'

yeh? Take a walk! You hain't got nothin' t' do with me, have yeh? Well, den, go sit on yerself.”

And his companions leaned back valorously in their chairs, and scrutinized this slim young fellow who was addressing Patsy.

”What's de little Dago chewin' about?”

”He wants t' sc.r.a.p!”

”What!”

The Cuban listened with apparent composure. It was only when they laughed that his body cringed as if he was receiving lashes. Presently he put down his gla.s.s and walked over to their table. He proceeded always with the most impressive deliberation.

”Sir,” he began again. ”You have insult me. I must have s-s-satisfac-shone. I must have your body upon the point of my sword.

In my country you would already be dead. I must have s-s-satisfac-shone.”

Patsy had looked at the Cuban with a trifle of bewilderment. But at last his face began to grow dark with belligerency, his mouth curved in that wide sneer with which he would confront an angel of darkness. He arose suddenly in his seat and came towards the little Cuban. He was going to be impressive too.

”Say, young feller, if yeh go shootin' off yer face at me, I'll wipe d'

joint wid yeh. What'cher gaffin' about, hey? Are yeh givin' me er jolly? Say, if yeh pick me up fer a cinch, I'll fool yeh. Dat's what!

Don't take me fer no dead easy mug.” And as he glowered at the little Cuban, he ended his oration with one eloquent word, ”Nit!”

The bartender nervously polished his bar with a towel, and kept his eyes fastened upon the men. Occasionally he became transfixed with interest, leaning forward with one hand upon the edge of the bar and the other holding the towel grabbed in a lump, as if he had been turned into bronze when in the very act of polis.h.i.+ng.

The Cuban did not move when Patsy came toward him and delivered his oration. At its conclusion he turned his livid face toward where, above him, Patsy was swaggering and heaving his shoulders in a consummate display of bravery and readiness. The Cuban, in his clear, tense tones, spoke one word. It was the bitter insult. It seemed fairly to spin from his lips and crackle in the air like breaking gla.s.s.

Every man save the little Cuban made an electric movement. Patsy roared a black oath and thrust himself forward until he towered almost directly above the other man. His fists were doubled into knots of bone and hard flesh. The Cuban had raised a steady finger.

”If you touch me wis your hand, I will keel you.”

The two well-dressed men had come swiftly, uttering protesting cries.

They suddenly intervened in this second of time in which Patsy had sprung forward and the Cuban had uttered his threat. The four men were now a tossing, arguing; violent group, one well-dressed man lecturing the Cuban, and the other holding off Patsy, who was now wild with rage, loudly repeating the Cuban's threat, and maneuvering and struggling to get at him for revenge's sake.

The bartender, feverishly scouring away with his towel, and at times pacing to and fro with nervous and excited tread, shouted out--

”Say, for heaven's sake, don't fight in here. If yeh wanta fight, go out in the street and fight all yeh please. But don't fight in here.”