Part 8 (1/2)
”Yessir,” he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. ”I'm d.a.m.n goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus trea's-le's have nozzer drink.”
He began to beat the wood with his gla.s.s.
”Shay,” howled he, growing suddenly impatient. As the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath.
”Shay,” howled he again.
The waiter appeared at the door.
”Bringsh drinksh,” said the man.
The waiter disappeared with the orders.
”Zat f'ler dam fool,” cried the man. ”He insul' me! I'm ge'man! Can' stan' be insul'! I'm goin' lickim when comes!”
”No, no,” cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. ”He's all right! He didn't mean anything! Let it go! He's a good fellah! ”
”Din' he insul' me?” asked the man earnestly.
”No,” said they. ”Of course he didn't! He's all right!”
”Sure he didn' insul' me?” demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice.
”No, no! We know him! He's a good fellah. He didn't mean anything.”
”Well, zen,” said the man, resolutely, ”I'm go' 'pol'gize!”
When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor.
”Girlsh shed you insul' me! I shay d.a.m.n lie! I 'pol'gize!”
”All right,” said the waiter.
The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody.
”Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din I? Yeh likes me, don' yehs, Nell? I'm goo' f 'ler?”
”Sure,” said the woman of brilliance and audacity.
”Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?”
”Sure,” she repeated, carelessly.
Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman.
”Yehs knows, d.a.m.n it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs, Nell, d.a.m.n't, I-I'm stuck on yehs, Nell-buy drinksh-d.a.m.n't-we're havin' heluva time-w'en anyone trea's me ri'-I-d.a.m.n't, Nell-we're havin' heluva-time.”
Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest.
The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor.
The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts.
”Come ahn,” cried one, starting up angrily, ”let's get out of here.”
The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. A guttural snore from the rec.u.mbent man caused her to turn and look down at him.
She laughed. ”What a d.a.m.n fool,” she said, and went.
The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. The smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. The wine from an overturned gla.s.s dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck.
XIX.
IN A ROOM A woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.
A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.
”Well,” said he, ”Mag's dead.”
”What?” said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.
”Mag's dead,” repeated the man.
”Deh h.e.l.l she is,” said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep.
”I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer tumb, and she weared worstedai boots,” moaned she. boots,” moaned she.
”Well, whata dat?” said the man.
”I kin remember when she weared worsted boots,” she cried.
The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted.
Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. ”Ah, poor Mary,” she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one.
”Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis,” continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. ”Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chile.”
Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe.
”I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no bigger dan yer tumb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith,” she cried, raising her streaming eyes.