The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (130 page)

“I ain’t er-beatin’ round ‘bout nuffin, jedge,” replied Williams, indignantly. “No, seh; I say whatter got to say right out. ‘Deed I do.”

“Well, say it, then.”

“Jedge,” began the negro, taking off his hat and switching his knee with it, “Lode knows I’d do jes ‘bout as much fer five dollehs er week as ainy cul’d man, but — but this yere business is awful, jedge. I raikon ‘ain’t been no sleep in — in my house sence docteh done fetch ‘im.”

“Well, what do you propose to do about it?”

Williams lifted his eyes from the ground and gazed off through the trees. “Raikon I got good appetite, an’ sleep jes like er dog, but he — he’s done broke me all up. ‘Tain’t no good, nohow. I wake up in the night; I hear ‘im, mebbe, er-whimperin’ an’ er-whimperin’, an’ I sneak an’ I sneak until I try th’ do’ to see if he locked in. An’ he keep me er-puzzlin’ an’ er-quakin’ all night long. Don’t know how’ll do in th’ winter. Can’t let ‘im out where th’ chillen is. He’ll done freeze where he is now.” Williams spoke these sentences as if he were talking to himself. After a silence of deep reflection he continued: “Folks go round sayin’ he ain’t Hennery Johnson at all. They say he’s er devil!”

“What?” cried the judge.

“Yesseh,” repeated Williams, in tones of injury, as if his veracity had been challenged. “Yesseh. I’m er-tellin’ it to yeh straight, jedge. Plenty cul’d people folks up my way say it is a devil.”

“Well, you don’t think so yourself, do you?”

“No. ‘Tain’t no devil. It’s Hennery Johnson.”

“Well, then, what is the matter with you? You don’t care what a lot of foolish people say. Go on ‘tending to your business, and pay no attention to such idle nonsense.”

“’Tis nonsense, jedge; but he
looks
like er devil.”

“What do you care what he looks like?” demanded the judge.

“Ma rent is two dollehs and er half er month,” said Williams, slowly.

“It might just as well be ten thousand dollars a month,” responded the judge. “You never pay it, anyhow.”

“Then, anoth’ thing,” continued Williams, in his reflective tone. “If he was all right in his haid I could stan’ it; but, jedge, he’s crazier ‘n er loon. Then when he looks like er devil, an’ done skears all ma frien’s away, an’ ma chillens cain’t eat, an’ ma ole ‘ooman jes raisin’ Cain all the time, an’ ma rent two dollehs an’ er half er month, an’ him not right in his haid, it seems like five dollehs er week—”

The judge’s stick came down sharply and suddenly upon the floor of the porch. “There,” he said, “I thought that was what you were driving at.”

Williams began swinging his head from side to side in the strange racial mannerism. “Now hol’ on a minnet, jedge,” he said, defensively. “‘Tain’t like as if I didn’t ‘preciate what the docteh done. ‘Tain’t that. Docteh Trescott is er kind man, an’ ‘tain’t like as if I didn’t ‘preciate what he done; but — but—”

“But what? You are getting painful, Alek. Now tell me this: did you ever have five dollars a week regularly before in your life?”

Williams at once drew himself up with great dignity, but in the pause after that question he drooped gradually to another attitude. In the end he answered, heroically: “No, jedge, I ‘ain’t. An’ ‘tain’t like as if I was er-sayin’ five dollehs wasn’t er lot er money for a man like me. But, jedge, what er man oughter git fer this kinder wuk is er salary. Yesseh, jedge,” he repeated, with a great impressive gesture; “fer this kinder wuk er man oughter git er Salary.” He laid a terrible emphasis upon the final word.

The judge laughed. “I know Dr. Trescott’s mind concerning this affair, Alek; and if you are dissatisfied with your boarder, he is quite ready to move him to some other place; so, if you care to leave word with me that you are tired of the arrangement and wish it changed, he will come and take Johnson away.”

Williams scratched his head again in deep perplexity. “Five dollehs is er big price fer bo’d, but ‘tain’t no big price fer the bo’d of er crazy man,” he said, finally.

“What do you think you ought to get?” asked the judge.

“Well,” answered Alek, in the manner of one deep in a balancing of the scales, “he looks like er devil, an’ done skears e’rybody, an’ ma chillens cain’t eat, an’ I cain’t sleep, an’ he ain’t right in his haid, an’—”

“You told me all those things.”

After scratching his wool, and beating his knee with his hat, and gazing off through the trees and down at the ground, Williams said, as he kicked nervously at the gravel, “Well, jedge, I think it is wuth—” He stuttered.

“Worth what?”

“Six dollehs,” answered Williams, in a desperate outburst.

The judge lay back in his great arm-chair and went through all the motions of a man laughing heartily, but he made no sound save a slight cough. Williams had been watching him with apprehension.

“Well,” said the judge, “do you call six dollars a salary?”

“No, seh,” promptly responded Williams. “‘Tain’t a salary. No, ‘deed! ‘Tain’t a salary.” He looked with some anger upon the man who questioned his intelligence in this way.

“Well, supposing your children can’t eat?”

“I—”

“And supposing he looks like a devil? And supposing all those things continue? Would you be satisfied with six dollars a week?”

Recollections seemed to throng in Williams’s mind at these interrogations, and he answered dubiously. “Of co’se a man who ain’t right in his haid, an’ looks like er devil — But six dollehs—” After these two attempts at a sentence Williams suddenly appeared as an orator, with a great shiny palm waving in the air. “I tell yeh, jedge, six dollehs is six dollehs, but if I git six dollehs for bo’ding Hennery Johnson, I uhns it! I uhns it!”

“I don’t doubt that you earn six dollars for every week’s work you do,” said the judge.

“Well, if I bo’d Hennery Johnson fer six dollehs er week, I uhns it! I uhns it!” cried Williams, wildly.

XIV

Reifsnyder’s assistant had gone to his supper, and the owner of the shop was trying to placate four men who wished to be shaved at once. Reifsnyder was very garrulous — a fact which made him rather remarkable among barbers, who, as a class, are austerely speechless, having been taught silence by the hammering reiteration of a tradition. It is the customers who talk in the ordinary event.

As Reifsnyder waved his razor down the cheek of a man in the chair, he turned often to cool the impatience of the others with pleasant talk, which they did not particularly heed.

“Oh, he should have let him die,” said Bainbridge, a railway engineer, finally replying to one of the barber’s orations. “Shut up, Reif, and go on with your business!”

Instead, Reifsnyder paused shaving entirely, and turned to front the speaker. “Let him die?” he demanded. “How vas that? How can you let a man die?”

“By letting him die, you chump,” said the engineer. The others laughed a little, and Reifsnyder turned at once to his work, sullenly, as a man overwhelmed by the derision of numbers.

“How vas that?” he grumbled later. “How can you let a man die when he vas done so much for you?”

“‘When he vas done so much for you?’” repeated Bainbridge. “You better shave some people. How vas that? Maybe this ain’t a barber shop?”

A man hitherto silent now said, “If I had been the doctor, I would have done the same thing.”

“Of course,” said Reifsnyder. “Any man vould do it. Any man that vas not like you, you — old — flint-hearted — fish.” He had sought the final words with painful care, and he delivered the collection triumphantly at Bainbridge. The engineer laughed.

The man in the chair now lifted himself higher, while Reifsnyder began an elaborate ceremony of anointing and combing his hair. Now free to join comfortably in the talk, the man said: “They say he is the most terrible thing in the world. Young Johnnie Bernard — that drives the grocery wagon — saw him up at Alek Williams’s shanty, and he says he couldn’t eat anything for two days.”

“Chee!” said Reifsnyder.

“Well, what makes him so terrible?” asked another.

“Because he hasn’t got any face,” replied the barber and the engineer in duct.

“Hasn’t got any face!” repeated the man. “How can he do without any face?”

“He has no face in the front of his head.
In the place where his face ought to grow.”

Bainbridge sang these lines pathetically as he arose and hung his hat on a hook. The man in the chair was about to abdicate in his favor. “Get a gait on you now,” he said to Reifsnyder. “I go out at 7.31.”

As the barber foamed the lather on the cheeks of the engineer he seemed to be thinking heavily. Then suddenly he burst out. “How would you like to be with no face?” he cried to the assemblage.

“Oh, if I had to have a face like yours—” answered one customer.

Bainbridge’s voice came from a sea of lather. “You’re kicking because if losing faces became popular, you’d have to go out of business.”

“I don’t think it will become so much popular,” said Reifsnyder.

“Not if it’s got to be taken off in the way his was taken off,” said another man. “I’d rather keep mine, if you don’t mind.”

“I guess so!” cried the barber. “Just think!”

The shaving of Bainbridge had arrived at a time of comparative liberty for him. “I wonder what the doctor says to himself?” he observed. “He may be sorry he made him live.”

“It was the only thing he could do,” replied a man. The others seemed to agree with him.

“Supposing you were in his place,” said one, “and Johnson had saved your kid. What would you do?”

“Certainly!”

“Of course! You would do anything on earth for him. You’d take all the trouble in the world for him. And spend your last dollar on him. Well, then?”

“I wonder how it feels to be without any face?” said Reifsnyder, musingly.

The man who had previously spoken, feeling that he had expressed himself well, repeated the whole thing. “You would do anything on earth for him. You’d take all the trouble in the world for him. And spend your last dollar on him. Well, then?”