The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (171 page)

With the delightful inconsistency of his age he sat in blissful calm, and watched the sufferings of an unfortunate boy named Zimmerman, who was the next victim of education. Jimmie, of course, did not know that on this day there had been laid for him the foundation of a finished incapacity for public speaking which would be his until he died.

SHAME

DON’T come in here botherin’ me,” said the cook, intolerantly. “What with your mother bein’ away on a visit, an’ your father comin’ home soon to lunch, I have enough on my mind — and that without bein’ bothered with
you
. The kitchen is no place for little boys, anyhow. Run away, and don’t be interferin’ with my work.” She frowned and made a grand pretence of being deep in herculean labors; but Jimmie did not run away.

“Now — they’re goin’ to have a picnic,” he said, half audibly.

“What?”

“Now — they’re goin’ to have a picnic.”

“Who’s goin’ to have a picnic?” demanded the cook, loudly. Her accent could have led one to suppose that if the projectors did not turn out to be the proper parties, she immediately would forbid this picnic.

Jimmie looked at her with more hopefulness. After twenty minutes of futile skirmishing, he had at least succeeded in introducing the subject. To her question he answered, eagerly:

“Oh, everybody! Lots and lots of boys and girls. Everybody.”

“Who’s everybody?”

According to custom, Jimmie began to singsong through his nose in a quite indescribable fashion an enumeration of the prospective picnickers: “Willie Dalzel an’ Dan Earl an’ Ella Earl an’ Wolcott Margate an’ Reeves Margate an’ Walter Phelps an’ Homer Phelps an’ Minnie Phelps an’ — oh — lots more girls an’ — everybody. An’ their mothers an’ big sisters too.” Then he announced a new bit of information: “They’re goin’ to have a picnic.”

“Well, let them,” said the cook, blandly.

Jimmie fidgeted for a time in silence. At last he murmured, “I — now — I thought maybe you’d let me go.”

The cook turned from her work with an air of irritation and amazement that Jimmie should still be in the kitchen. “Who’s stoppin’ you?” she asked, sharply. “I ain’t stoppin’ you, am I?”

“No,” admitted Jimmie, in a low voice.

“Well, why don’t you go, then? Nobody’s stoppin’ you.”

“But,” said Jimmie, “I — you — now — each fellow has got to take somethin’ to eat with ‘m.”

“Oh ho!” cried the cook, triumphantly. “So that’s it, is it? So that’s what you’ve been shyin’ round here fer, eh? Well, you may as well take yourself off without more words. What with your mother bein’ away on a visit, an’ your father comin’ home soon to his lunch, I have enough on my mind — an’ that without being bothered with
you
!”

Jimmie made no reply, but moved in grief towards the door. The cook continued: “Some people in this house seem to think there’s ‘bout a thousand cooks in this kitchen. Where I used to work b’fore, there was some reason in ‘em. I ain’t a horse. A picnic!”

Jimmie said nothing, but he loitered.

“Seems as if I had enough to do, without havin’
you
come round talkin’ about picnics. Nobody ever seems to think of the work I have to do. Nobody ever seems to think of it. Then they come and talk to me about picnics! What do I care about picnics?”

Jimmie loitered.

“Where I used to work b’fore, there was some reason in ‘em. I never heard tell of no picnics right on top of your mother bein’ away on a visit an’ your father comin’ home soon to his lunch. It’s all foolishness.”

Little Jimmie leaned his head flat against the wall and began to weep. She stared at him scornfully. “Cryin’, eh? Cryin’? What are you cryin’ fer?”

“N-n-nothin’,” sobbed Jimmie.

There was a silence, save for Jimmie’s convulsive breathing. At length the cook said: “Stop that blubberin’, now. Stop it! This kitchen ain’t no place fer it. Stop it!... Very well! If you don’t stop, I won’t give you nothin’ to go to the picnic with — there!”

For the moment he could not end his tears. “You never said,” he sputtered—”you never said you’d give me anything.”

“An’ why would I?” she cried, angrily. “Why would I — with you in here a-cryin’ an’ a-blubberin’ an’ a-bleatin’ round? Enough to drive a woman crazy! I don’t see how you could expect me to! The idea!”

Suddenly Jimmie announced: “I’ve stopped cryin’. I ain’t goin’ to cry no more ‘tall.”

“Well, then,” grumbled the cook—”well, then, stop it. I’ve got enough on my mind.” It chanced that she was making for luncheon some salmon croquettes. A tin still half full of pinky prepared fish was beside her on the table. Still grumbling, she seized a loaf of bread and, wielding a knife, she cut from this loaf four slices, each of which was as big as a six-shilling novel. She profligately spread them with butter, and jabbing the point of her knife into the salmon-tin, she brought up bits of salmon, which she flung and flattened upon the bread. Then she crashed the pieces of bread together in pairs, much as one would clash cymbals. There was no doubt in her own mind but that she had created two sandwiches.

“There,” she cried. “That’ll do you all right. Lemme see. What ‘ll I put ’em in? There — I’ve got it.” She thrust the sandwiches into a small pail and jammed on the lid. Jimmie was ready for the picnic. “Oh, thank you, Mary!” he cried, joyfully, and in a moment he was off, running swiftly.

The picnickers had started nearly half an hour earlier, owing to his inability to quickly attack and subdue the cook, but he knew that the rendezvous was in the grove of tall, pillarlike hemlocks and pines that grew on a rocky knoll at the lake shore. His heart was very light as he sped, swinging his pail. But a few minutes previously his soul had been gloomed in despair; now he was happy. He was going to the picnic, where privilege of participation was to be bought by the contents of the little tin pail.

When he arrived in the outskirts of the grove he heard a merry clamor, and when he reached the top of the knoll he looked down the slope upon a scene which almost made his little breast burst with joy. They actually had two camp-fires! Two camp-fires! At one of them Mrs. Earl was making something — chocolate, no doubt — and at the other a young lady in white duck and a sailor hat was dropping eggs into boiling water. Other grown-up people had spread a white cloth and were laying upon it things from baskets. In the deep cool shadow of the trees the children scurried, laughing. Jimmie hastened forward to join his friends.

Homer Phelps caught first sight of him. “Ho!” he shouted; “here comes Jimmie Trescott! Come on, Jimmie; you be on our side!” The children had divided themselves into two bands for some purpose of play. The others of Homer Phelps’s party loudly endorsed his plan. “Yes, Jimmie, you be on
our
side.” Then arose the usual dispute. “Well, we got the weakest side.”

“‘Tain’t any weaker’n ours.”

Homer Phelps suddenly started, and looking hard, said, “What you got in the pail, Jim?”

Jimmie answered, somewhat uneasily, “Got m’ lunch in it.”

Instantly that brat of a Minnie Phelps simply tore down the sky with her shrieks of derision. “Got his
lunch
in it! In a
pail
!” She ran screaming to her mother. “Oh, mamma! Oh, mamma! Jimmie Trescott’s got his picnic in a pail!”

Now there was nothing in the nature of this fact to particularly move the others — notably the boys, who were not competent to care if he had brought his luncheon in a coal-bin; but such is the instinct of childish society that they all immediately moved away from him. In a moment he had been made a social leper. All old intimacies were flung into the lake, so to speak. They dared not compromise themselves. At safe distances the boys shouted, scornfully: “Huh! Got his picnic in a pail!” Never again during that picnic did the little girls speak of him as Jimmie Trescott. His name now was Him.

His mind was dark with pain as he stood, the hangdog, kicking the gravel, and muttering as defiantly as he was able, “Well, I can have it in a pail if I want to.” This statement of freedom was of no importance, and he knew it, but it was the only idea in his head.

“‘JIMMY TRESCOTT’S GOT HIS PICNIC IN A PAIL!’”

He had been baited at school for being detected in writing a letter to little Cora, the angel child, and he had known how to defend himself, but this situation was in no way similar. This was a social affair, with grown people on all sides. It would be sweet to catch the Margate twins, for instance, and hammer them into a state of bleating respect for his pail; but that was a matter for the jungles of childhood, where grown folk seldom penetrated. He could only glower.

The amiable voice of Mrs. Earl suddenly called: “Come, children! Everything’s ready!” They scampered away, glancing back for one last gloat at Jimmie standing there with his pail.

He did not know what to do. He knew that the grown folk expected him at the spread, but if he approached he would be greeted by a shameful chorus from the children — more especially from some of those damnable little girls. Still, luxuries beyond all dreaming were heaped on that cloth. One could not forget them. Perhaps if he crept up modestly, and was very gentle and very nice to the little girls, they would allow him peace. Of course it had been dreadful to come with a pail to such a grand picnic, but they might forgive him.

Oh no, they would not! He knew them better. And then suddenly he remembered with what delightful expectations he had raced to this grove, and self-pity overwhelmed him, and he thought he wanted to die and make every one feel sorry.

The young lady in white duck and a sailor hat looked at him, and then spoke to her sister, Mrs. Earl. “Who’s that hovering in the distance, Emily?”

Mrs. Earl peered. “Why, it’s Jimmie Trescott! Jimmie, come to the picnic! Why don’t you come to the picnic, Jimmie?” He began to sidle towards the cloth.

But at Mrs. Earl’s call there was another outburst from many of the children. “He’s got his picnic in a pail! In a
pail
! Got it in a pail!”

Minnie Phelps was a shrill fiend. “Oh, mamma, he’s got it in that pail! See! Isn’t it funny? Isn’t it dreadful funny?”

“What ghastly prigs children are, Emily!” said the young lady. “They are spoiling that boy’s whole day, breaking his heart, the little cats! I think I’ll go over and talk to him.”

“Maybe you had better not,” answered Mrs. Earl, dubiously. “Somehow these things arrange themselves. If you interfere, you are likely to prolong everything.”

“Well, I’ll try, at least,” said the young lady.

At the second outburst against him Jimmie had crouched down by a tree, half hiding behind it, half pretending that he was not hiding behind it. He turned his sad gaze towards the lake. The bit of water seen through the shadows seemed perpendicular, a slate-colored wall. He heard a noise near him, and turning, he perceived the young lady looking down at him. In her hand she held plates. “May I sit near you?” she asked, coolly.