Here the child, uttering loud cries, came valiantly forth like a knight. The father of the family paid no attention to these calls of the child, but advanced with glee upon the dog. Upon being knocked down twice in swift succession, the latter apparently gave up all hope of escape. He rolled over on his back and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his eyes and his ears he offered up a small prayer.
But the father was in a mood for having fun, and it occurred to him that it would be a fine thing to throw the dog out of the window. So he reached down and, grabbing the animal by a leg, lifted him, squirming, up. He swung him two or three times hilariously about his head, and then flung him with great accuracy through the window.
The soaring dog created a surprise in the block. A woman watering plants in an opposite window gave an involuntary shout and dropped a flowerpot. A man in another window leaned perilously out to watch the flight of the dog. A woman who had been hanging out clothes in a yard began to caper wildly. Her mouth was filled with clothespins, but her arms gave vent to a sort of exclamation. In appearance she was like a gagged prisoner. Children ran whooping.
The dark brown body crashed in a heap on the roof of a shed five stories below. From thence it rolled to the pavement of an alleyway.
The child in the room far above burst into a long, dirge-like cry, and toddled hastily out of the room. It took him a long time to reach the alley, because his size compelled him to go downstairs backward, one step at a time, and holding with both hands to the step above.
When they came for him later, they found him seated by the body of his dark brown friend.
1894?
[The Cosmopolitan, Vol. 30 (March, 1901), pp. 481–486.]
* Tommie Series. Also Midnight Sketches.
BILLIE ATKINS WENT TO OMAHA
[An American Tramp’s Excursion]
Billie Atkins is a traveler. He has seen the cold blue gleam of the northern lakes, the tangled green thickets of Florida and the white peaks of the Rockies. All this has he seen and much more, for he has been a tramp for sixteen years.
One winter evening when the “sitting room” of a lodging house just off the Bowery was thronged with loungers Billie came in, mellow with drink and in the eloquent stage. He chose to charm them with a description of a journey from Denver to Omaha. They all listened with appreciation, for when Billie is quite drunk he tells a tale with indescribable gestures and humorous emotions that makes one feel that, after all, the buffets of fate are rather more comic than otherwise.
It seems that when Billie was in Denver last winter it suddenly occurred to him that he wished to be in Omaha. He did not deem it necessary to explain this fancy: he merely announced that he happened to be in Denver last winter and that then it occurred to him that he wished to be in Omaha. Apparently these ideas come to his class like bolts of compelling lightning. After that swift thought of Omaha it was impossible for Denver to contain him; he must away. When the night express on the Union Pacific pulled out Billie “made a great sneak” behind some freight cars and climbed onto the “blind” end of the baggage car.
It was a very dark night and Billie congratulated himself that he had not been discovered. He huddled to a little heap on the car platform and thought, with a woman’s longing, of Omaha.
However, it was not long before an icy stream of water struck Billie a startling blow in the face, and as he raised his eyes he saw in the red glare from the engine a very jocular fireman crouching on the coal and holding the nozzle of a small hose in his hand. And at frequent intervals during the night this jocular fireman would climb up on the coal and play the hose on Billie. The drenched tramp changed his position and curled himself up into a little ball and swore graphically, all to no purpose. The fireman persisted with his hose and when he thought that Billie was getting too comfortable he came back to the rear of the tender and doused him with a pailful of very cold water.
But Billie stuck to his position. For one reason, the express went too fast for him to get safely off, and for another reason he wished to go to Omaha.
The train rushed out of the shadow of the mountains and into the cold gray of dawn on the prairies. The biting chill of the morning made Billie shake in his wet clothes. He adjusted himself on the edge of the rocking car platform where he could catch the first rays of the sun. And it was this change of position that got him into certain difficulties. At about eight o’clock the express went roaring through a little village. Billie, sunning himself on the edge of the steps, espied three old farmers seated on the porch of the village store. They grinned at him and waved their arms.
“I taut they was jest givin’ me er jolly,” said Billie, “so I waved me hand at ’em an’ gives ’em er laugh, an’ th’ train went on. But it turned out they wasn’t motionin’ t’ me at all, but was all th’ while givin’ er tip t’ th’ brakey that I was on th’ blind. An’ ’fore I knew it th’ brakey came over th’ top, or aroun’ th’ side, or somehow, an’ I was a-gittin’ kicked in th’ neck.”
“ ‘Gitoffahere! gitoffahere!’
“I was dead escared b’cause th’ train was goin’ hell bentin’.
“ ‘Gitoffahere! gitoffahere’
“ ‘Oh, please, mister,’ I sez, ‘I can’t git off—th’ train’s goin’ too fast.’ ”
But he kept on kickin’ me fer a while til finally he got tired an’ stopped th’ train b’cause I could a-never got off th’ way she was runnin’. By this time th’ passengers in all th’ cars got onto it that they was puttin’ er bum off th’ blind, an’ when I got down off th’ step, I see every winder in th’ train was fuller heads, an’ they gimme er great laugh until I had t’ turn me back an’ walk off.”
As it happened, the nearest station to where Billie then found himself was eighteen miles distant. He dried his clothes as best he could and then swore along the tracks for a mile or two. But it was weary business—tramping along in the vast vacancy of the plains. Billie got tired and lay down to wait for a freight train. After a time one came and as the long string of boxcars thundered past him, he made another “great sneak” and a carefully calculated run and grab. He got safely on the little step and then he began to do what he called “ridin’ th’ ladder.” That is to say, he clung to the little iron ladder that is fastened to the end of each car. He remained hanging there while the long train crept slowly over the plains.
He did not dare to show himself above the top of the car for fear of the brakeman. He considered himself safe down between the ends of the jolting cars, but once, as he chanced to look toward the sky, he saw a burly brakeman leaning on the brakewheel and regarding him.
“Come up here,” said the brakeman.
Billie climbed painfully to the top of the car.
“Got any money?” said the brakeman.
“No,” replied Billie.
“Well, then, gitoffahere,” said the brakeman, and Billie received another installment of kicks. He went down the ladder and puckered his mouth and drew in his breath, preparatory to getting off the car, but the train had arrived at a small grade and Billie became frightened. The little wheels were all a-humming and the cars lurched like boats on the sea.
“Oh, please, mister,” said Billie, “I can’t git off. Its a-goin’ too fast.”
The brakeman swore and began the interesting operation of treading, with his brass toed boots, on Billie’s fingers. Billie hung hard. He cast glances of despair at the rapid fleeting ground and shifted his grip often. But presently the brakeman’s heels came down with extraordinary force and Billie involuntarily released his hold.
He fell in a heap and rolled over and over. His face and body were scratched and bruised, and on the top of his head there was a contusion that fitted like a new derby. His clothes had been rags, but they were now exaggerated out of all semblance of clothes. He sat up and looked at the departing train. “Gawd-dernit,” he said, “I’ll never git t’ Omaha at this rate.”
Presently Billie developed a most superhuman
hunger. He saw the houses of a village some distance away, and he made for them, resolved to have something to eat if it cost a life. But still he knew he would be arrested if he appeared on the streets of any well organized, respectable town in the trousers he was then obliged to wear. He was in a quandary until by good fortune he perceived a pair of brown overalls hanging on a line in the rear of an isolated house.
He “made a great sneak on ’em.” This sort of thing requires patience, but not more than an hour later, he bore off a large square of cloth which he had torn from one leg of the overalls. At another house he knocked at the door and when a woman came he stood very carefully facing her and requested a needle and thread. She gave them to him, and he waited until she had shut the door before he turned and went away.
He retired then into a thick growing patch of sunflowers on the outskirts of the town and started in to sew the piece of overall to his trousers. He had not been engaged long at his task before “two hundred kids” accumulated in front of the sunflower patch and began to throw stones at him. For some time the sky was darkened by a shower of missiles of all sizes. Occasionally Billie, without his trousers, would make little forays, yelling savage threats. These would compel the boys to retire some distance, but they always returned again with renewed ardor. Billie thought he would never get his trousers mended.
But this adventure was the cause of his again meeting Black John Randolph, who Billie said was “th’ whitest pardner” he ever had. While he was engaged in conflict with the horde of boys a negro came running down the road and began to belabor them with a boot blacking kit. The boys ran off, and Billie saw with delight that his rescuer was Black John Randolph, whom he had known in Memphis.
Billie, unmolested, sewed his trousers. Then he told Black John that he was hungry, and the two swooped down on the town. Black John shined shoes until dark. He shined for all the available citizens of the place. Billie stood around and watched. The earnings were sixty cents. They spent it all for gingerbread, for it seems that Billie had developed a sudden marvelous longing for gingerbread.
Having feasted, Billie decided to make another attempt for Omaha. He and Black John went to the railroad yard and there they discovered an eastbound freight car that was empty save for one tramp and seven cans of peaches. They parleyed with the tramp and induced him to give up his claim on two-thirds of the car. They settled very comfortably, and that night Billie was again on his way to Omaha. The three of them lived for twenty-four hours on canned peaches, and would have been happy ever after no doubt if it had not happened that their freight car was presently switched off to a side line, and sent careering off in the wrong direction.
When Billie discovered this he gave a whoop and fell out of the car, for he was very particular about walking, and he did not wish to be dragged far from the main line. He trudged back to it, and there discovered a lumber car that contained about forty tramps.
This force managed to overawe the trainmen for a time and compel a free ride for a few miles, but presently the engine was stopped, and the trainmen formed in war array and advanced with clubs.
Billie had had experience in such matters. He “made a sneak.” He repaired to a coal car and cuddled among the coal. He buried his body completely, and of his head only his nose and his eyes could have been seen.
The trainmen spread the tramps out over the prairie in a wide fleeing circle, as when a stone is hurled into a placid creek. They remained cursing in their beards, and the train went on.
Billie, snug in his bed, smiled without disarranging the coal that covered his mouth, and thought of Omaha.
But in an hour or two he got impatient, and upreared his head to look at the scenery. An eagle-eyed brakeman espied him.
“Got any money?”
“No.”
“Well, then, gitoffahere.”
Billie got off. The brakeman continued to throw coal at him until the train had hauled him beyond range.
“Hully mack’rel,” said Billie, “I’ll never git t’ Omaha.”
He was quite discouraged. He lay down on a bank beside the track to think, and while there he went to sleep. When he awoke a freight train was thundering past him. Still half asleep, he made a dash and a grab. He was up the ladder and on top of the car before he had recovered all of his faculties. A brakeman charged on him. “Got any money?”
“No, but, please, mister, won’t yeh please let me stay on yer train fer a little ways? I’m awful tired, and I wanta git t’ Omaha.”
The brakeman reflected. Then he searched Billie’s pockets, and finding half a plug of tobacco, took possession of it. He decided to let Billie ride for a time.
Billie perched on top of the car and admired the changing scenery while the train went twenty miles. Then the brakeman induced him to get off, considering no doubt that a twenty mile ride was sufficient in exchange for a half plug of tobacco.
The rest of the trip is incoherent, like the detailed accounts of great battles. Billie boarded trains and got thrown off on his head, on his left shoulder, on his right shoulder, on his hands and knees. He struck the ground slanting, straight, from above, and full sideways. His clothes were shredded and torn like the sails of a gale blown brig. His skip was tattooed with bloody lines, crosses, triangles, and all the devices known to geometry. But he wouldn’t walk, and he was bound to reach Omaha. So he let the trainmen use him as a projectile with which to bombard the picturesque Western landscape.
And eventually he reached Omaha. One night, when it was snowing and cold winds whistled among the city’s chimneys, he arrived in a coal car. He was filled with glee that he had reached the place of his endeavor. He could not repress his pride when he thought of the conquered miles. He went forth from the coal car with a blithe step.
The police would not let him stand on a corner nor sit down anywhere. They drove him about for two or three hours, until he happened to think of the railroad station. He went there, and was just getting into a nice doze by the warm red stove in the waiting room, when an official of some kind took him by the collar, and leading him calmly to the door, kicked him out into the snow. After that he was ejected from four saloons in rapid succession.
“Hully mack’rel!” he said, as he stood in the snow and quavered and trembled.
Until three o’clock in the morning various industrious policemen kept him moving from place to place as if he were pawn in a game of chess, until finally Billie became desperate and approached an officer in this fashion: “Say, mister, won’t yeh please arrest me? I wanta go t’ jail so’s I can sleep.”
“What?”
“I say, won’t yer please arrest me? I wanta go t’ jail so I kin sleep.”
The policeman studied Billie for a moment. Then he made an impatient gesture. “Oh, can’t yeh arrest yerself? The jail’s a long ways from here, an’ I don’t wanta take yeh way up there.”
“Sure—I kin,” said Billie. “Where is it?”
The policeman gave him directions, and Billie started for the jail.
He had considerable difficulty in finding it. He was often obliged to accost people in the street. “Please, mister, can yeh tell me where the jail is?”
At last he found it, and after a short parley, they admitted him. They gave him permission to sleep on a sort of an iron slab swung by four chains from the ceiling. Billie sank down upon this couch and arrayed his meager rags about his form. Before he was completely in the arms of the slumber god, however, he made a remark expressive of a new desire, a sudden born longing. “Huly mack’rel, I mus’ start back for Denver in th’ mornin’.”
May 20, 1894
[New York Press, part 4, p. 3.]
MR. BINKS’ DAY OFF:
A STUDY OF A CLERK’S HOLIDAY
When Binks was coming uptown in a Broadway cable car one afternoon he caught some superficial glimpses of Madison Square as he ducked his head to peek through between a young woman’s bonnet and a young man’s newspaper. The green of the little park vaguely astonished Bin
ks. He had grown accustomed to a white and brown park; now, all at once, it was radiant green. The grass, the leaves, had come swiftly, silently, as if a great green light from the sky had shone suddenly upon the little desolate-hued place.
The vision cheered the mind of Binks. It cried to him that nature was still supreme; he had begun to think the banking business to be the pivot on which the universe turned. Produced by this wealth of young green, faint, faraway voices called to him. Certain subtle memories swept over him. The million leaves looked into his soul and said something sweet and pure in an unforgotten song, the melody of his past. Binks began to dream.
When he arrived at the little Harlem flat he sat down to dinner with an air of profound dejection, which Mrs. Binks promptly construed into an insult to her cooking, and to the time and thought she had expended in preparing the meal. She promptly resented it. “Will, what’s the matter now?” she demanded. Apparently she had asked this question ten thousand times.
“Nothin’,” said Binks, shortly, filled with gloom. He meant by this remark that his ailment was so subtle that her feminine mind would not be enlightened by any explanation.
The head of the family was in an ugly mood. The little Binkses suddenly paused in their uproar and became very wary children. They knew that it would be dangerous to do anything irrelevant to their father’s bad temper. They studied his face with their large eyes, filled with childish seriousness and speculation. Meanwhile they ate with the most extraordinary caution. They handled their little forks with such care that there was barely a sound. At each slight movement of their father they looked apprehensively at him, expecting the explosion.
The meal continued amid a somber silence. At last, however, Binks spoke, clearing his throat of the indefinite rage that was in it and looking over at his wife. The little Binkses seemed to inwardly dodge, but he merely said: “I wish I could get away into the country for a while!”