The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (175 page)

He found a soft place in the grass, and arranged himself comfortably. He watched the lights in the windows.

III

It seemed to Peter Washington that the Bryants absolutely consulted their own wishes in regard to the time for retiring; but at last he saw the lighted windows fade briskly from left to right, and after a moment a window on the second floor blazed out against the darkness. Si was going to bed. In five minutes this window abruptly vanished, and all the world was night.

Peter spent the ensuing quarter-hour in no mental debate. His mind was fixed. He was here, and the melon was there. He would have it. But an idea of being caught appalled him. He thought of his position. He was the beau of his community, honored right and left. He pictured the consternation of his friends and the cheers of his enemies if the hands of the redoubtable Si Bryant should grip him in his shame.

He arose, and going to the fence, listened. No sound broke the stillness, save the rhythmical incessant clicking of myriad insects, and the guttural chanting of the frogs in the reeds at the lake-side. Moved by sudden decision, he climbed the fence and crept silently and swiftly down upon the melon. His open knife was in his hand. There was the melon, cool, fair to see, as pompous in its fatness as the cook in a monastery.

Peter put out a hand to steady it while he cut the stem. But at the instant he was aware that a black form had dropped over the fence lining the lane in front of him and was coming stealthily towards him. In a palsy of terror he dropped flat upon the ground, not having strength enough to run away. The next moment he was looking into the amazed and agonized face of old Alek Williams.

There was a moment of loaded silence, and then Peter was overcome by a mad inspiration. He suddenly dropped his knife and leaped upon Alek. “I got che!” he hissed. “I got che! I got che!” The old man sank down as limp as rags. “I got che! I got che! Steal Mist’ Bryant’s mellums, hey?”

Alek, in a low voice, began to beg. “Oh, Mist’ Peter Wash’ton, don’ go fer ter be too ha’d on er ole man! I nev’ come yere fer ter steal ‘em. ‘Deed I didn’t, Mist’ Wash’ton! I come yere jes fer ter
feel
‘em. Oh, please, Mist’ Wash’ton—”

“Come erlong outa yere, you ol’ rip,” said Peter, “an’ don’ trumple on dese yer baids. I gwine put you wah you won’ ketch col’.”

Without difficulty he tumbled the whining Alek over the fence to the roadway, and followed him with sheriff-like expedition! He took him by the scruff. “Come erlong, deacon. I raikon I gwine put you wah you kin pray, deacon. Come erlong, deacon.”

The emphasis and reiteration of his layman’s title in the church produced a deadly effect upon Alek. He felt to his marrow the heinous crime into which this treacherous night had betrayed him. As Peter marched his prisoner up the road towards the mouth of the lane, he continued his remarks: “Come erlong, deacon. Nev’ see er man so anxious like erbout er mellum-paitch, deacon. Seem like you jes must see’em er-growin’ an’
feel
‘em, deacon. Mist’ Bryant he’ll be s’prised, deacon, findin’ out you come fer ter
feel
his mellums. Come erlong, deacon. Mist’ Bryant he expectin’ some ole rip like you come soon.”

They had almost reached the lane when Alek’s cur Susie, who had followed her master, approached in the silence which attends dangerous dogs; and seeing indications of what she took to be war, she appended herself swiftly but firmly to the calf of Peter’s left leg. The mêlée was short, but spirited. Alek had no wish to have his dog complicate his already serious misfortunes, and went manfully to the defence of his captor. He procured a large stone, and by beating this with both hands down upon the resounding skull of the animal, he induced her to quit her grip. Breathing heavily, Peter dropped into the long grass at the road-side. He said nothing.

“THE NEXT MOMENT HE WAS LOOKING INTO THE AMAZED AND AGONIZED FACE OF OLD ALEK”

“Mist’ Wash’ton,” said Alek at last, in a quavering voice, “I raikon I gwine wait yere see what you gwine do ter me.”

Whereupon Peter passed into a spasmodic state, in which he rolled to and fro and shook.

“Mist’ Wash’ton, I hope dish yer dog ‘ain’t gone an’ give you fitses?”

Peter sat up suddenly. “No, she ‘ain’t,” he answered; “but she gin me er big skeer; an’ fer yer ‘sistance with er cobblestone, Mist’ Willums, I tell you what I gwine do — I tell you what I gwine do.” He waited an impressive moment. “I gwine ‘lease you!”

Old Alek trembled like a little bush in a wind. “Mist’ Wash’ton?”

Quoth Peter, deliberately, “I gwine ‘lease you.”

The old man was filled with a desire to negotiate this statement at once, but he felt the necessity of carrying off the event without an appearance of haste. “Yes, seh; thank ‘e, seh; thank ‘e, Mist’ Wash’ton. I raikon I ramble home pressenly.” He waited an interval, and then dubiously said, “Good-evenin’, Mist’ Wash’ton.”

“Good-evenin’, deacon. Don’ come foolin’ roun’
feelin’
no mellums, and I say troof. Good-evenin’, deacon.”

Alek took off his hat and made three profound bows. “Thank ‘e, seh. Thank ‘e, seh. Thank ‘e, seh.”

Peter underwent another severe spasm, but the old man walked off towards his home with a humble and contrite heart.

IV

The next morning Alek proceeded from his shanty under the complete but customary illusion that he was going to work. He trudged manfully along until he reached the vicinity of Si Bryant’s place. Then, by stages, he relapsed into a slink. He was passing the garden-patch under full steam, when, at some distance ahead of him, he saw Si Bryant leaning casually on the garden fence.

“Good-mornin’, Alek.”

“Good-mawnin’, Mist’ Bryant,” answered Alek, with a new deference. He was marching on, when he was halted by a word—”Alek!”

He stopped. “Yes, seh.”

“I found a knife this mornin’ in th’ road,” drawled Si, “an’ I thought maybe it was yourn.”

Improved in mind by this divergence from the direct line of attack, Alek stepped up easily to look at the knife. “No, seh,” he said, scanning it as it lay in Si’s palm, while the cold steel-blue eyes of the white man looked down into his stomach, “‘tain’t no knife er mine.” But he knew the knife. He knew it as if it had been his mother. And at the same moment a spark flashed through his head and made wise his understanding. He knew everything. “‘Tain’t much of er knife, Mist’ Bryant,” he said, deprecatingly.

“‘Tain’t much of a knife, I know that,” cried Si, in sudden heat, “but I found it this mornin’ in my watermelon-patch — hear?”

“Watahmellum-paitch?” yelled Alek, not astounded.

“Yes, in my watermelon-patch,” sneered Si, “an’ I think you know something about it, too!”

“Me?” cried Alek. “Me?”

“Yes — you!” said Si, with icy ferocity. “Yes — you!” He had become convinced that Alek was not in any way guilty, but he was certain that the old man knew the owner of the knife, and so he pressed him at first on criminal lines. “Alek, you might as well own up now. You’ve been meddlin’ with my watermelons!”

“Me?” cried Alek again. “Yah’s
ma
knife. I done cah’e it foh yeahs.”

Bryant changed his ways. “Look here, Alek,” he said, confidentially: “I know you and you know me, and there ain’t no use in any more skirmishin’.
I
know that
you
know whose knife that is. Now whose is it?”

This challenge was so formidable in character that Alek temporarily quailed and began to stammer. “Er — now — Mist’ Bryant — you — you — frien’ er mine—”

“I know I’m a friend of yours, but,” said Bryant, inexorably, “who owns this knife?”

Alek gathered unto himself some remnants of dignity and spoke with reproach: “Mist’ Bryant, dish yer knife ain’ mine.”

“No,” said Bryant, “it ain’t. But you know who it belongs to, an’ I want you to tell me — quick.”

“Well, Mist’ Bryant,” answered Alek, scratching his wool, “I won’t say ‘s I
do
know who b’longs ter dish yer knife, an’ I won’t say ‘s I
don’t
.”

Bryant again laughed his Yankee laugh, but this time there was little humor in it. It was dangerous.

Alek, seeing that he had gotten himself into hot water by the fine diplomacy of his last sentence, immediately began to flounder and totally submerge himself. “No, Mist’ Bryant,” he repeated, “I won’t say ‘s I
do
know who b’longs ter dish yer knife, an’ I won’t say ‘s I
don’t
.” And he began to parrot this fatal sentence again and again. It seemed wound about his tongue. He could not rid himself of it. Its very power to make trouble for him seemed to originate the mysterious Afric reason for its repetition.

“Is he a very close friend of yourn?” said Bryant, softly.

“F-frien’?” stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with much care. “Well, seems like he
was
er frien’, an’ then agin, it seems like he—”

“It seems like he
wasn’t
?” asked Bryant.

“Yes, seh, jest so, jest so,” cried Alek. “Sometimes it seems like he
wasn’t
. Then agin—” He stopped for profound meditation.

The patience of the white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low and oily voice broke the stillness. “Oh, well, of course if he’s a friend of yourn, Alek! You know I wouldn’t want to make no trouble for a friend of yourn.”

“Yes, seh,” cried the negro at once. “He’s er frien’ er mine. He is dat.”

“Well, then, it seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to tell me his name so’s I can send him his knife, and that’s all there is to it.”

Alek took off his hat, and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool. He studied the ground. But several times he raised his eyes to take a sly peep at the imperturbable visage of the white man. “Y — y — yes, Mist’ Bryant. ...I raikon dat’s erbout all what kin be done. I gwine tell you who b’longs ter dish yer knife.”