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Elisha Cuthbert Photos Books: Martin Eden The Pickwick Papers The Sea Wolf |
received, racked his
soul; after that things grew numb, and he fought on blindly, seeing as in
a dream, dancing and wavering, the large features and burning, animal-
like eyes of Cheese-Face. He concentrated upon that face; all else about
him was a whirling void. There was nothing else in the world but that
face, and he would never know rest, blessed rest, until he had beaten
that face into a pulp with his bleeding knuckles, or until the bleeding
knuckles that somehow belonged to that face had beaten him into a pulp.
And then, one way or the other, he would have rest. But to quit,--for
him, Martin, to quit,--that was impossible!
Came the day when he dragged himself into the Enquirer alley, and there
was no Cheese-Face. Nor did Cheese-Face come. The boys congratulated
him, and told him that he had licked Cheese-Face. But Martin was not
satisfied. He had not licked Cheese-Face, nor had Cheese-Face licked
him. The problem had not been solved. It was not until afterward that
they learned that Cheese-Faces father had died suddenly that very day.
Martin skipped on through the years to the night in the nigger heaven at
the Auditorium. He was seventeen and just back from sea. A row started.
Somebody was bullying somebody, and Martin interfered, to be confronted
by Cheese-Faces blazing eyes.
"Ill fix you after de show," his ancient enemy hissed.
Martin nodded. The nigger-heaven bouncer was making his way toward the
disturbance.
"Ill meet you outside, after the last act," Martin whispered, the while
his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wing dancing on the
stage.
The bouncer glared and went away.
"Got a gang?" he asked Cheese-Face, at the end of the act.
"Sure."
"Then I got to get one," Martin announced.
Between the acts he mustered his following--three fellows he knew from
the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of the Boo Gang,
along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and-Market Gang.
When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung along inconspicuously on
opposite sides of the street. When they came to a quiet corner, they
united and held a council of war.
"Eighth Street Bridge is the place," said a red-headed fellow belonging
to Cheese-Faces Gang. "You kin fight in the middle, under the electric
light, an whichever way the bulls come in we kin sneak the other way."
"Thats agreeable to me," Martin said, after consulting with the leaders
of his own gang.
The Eighth Street Bridge, crossing an arm of San Antonio Estuary, was the
length of three city blocks. In the middle of the bridge, and at each
end, were electric lights. No policeman could pass those end-lights
unseen. It was the safe place for the battle that revived itself under
Martins eyelids. He saw the two gangs, aggressive and sullen, rigidly
keeping apart from each other and backing their respective champions; and
he saw himself and Cheese-Face stripping. A short distance away lookouts
were set, their task being to watch the lighted ends of the bridge. A
member of the Boo Gang held Martins coat, and shirt, and cap, ready to
race with them into safety in case the police interfered. Martin watched
himself go into the centre, facing Cheese-Face, and he heard himself say,
as he held up his hand warningly:-
"They aint no hand-shakin in this. Understand? They aint nothin but
scrap. No throwin up the sponge. This is a grudge-fight an its to a
finish. Understand? Somebodys goin to get licked."
Cheese-Face wanted to demur,--Martin could see that,--but Cheese-Faces
old perilous pride was touched before the two gangs.
"Aw, come on," he replied. "Wots the good of chewin de rag about it?
Im wit cheh to de finish."
Then they fell upon each other, like young bulls, in all the glory of
youth, with naked fists, with hatred, with desire to hurt, to maim, to
destroy. All the painful, thousand years gains of man in his upward
climb through creation were lost. Only the electric light remained, a
milestone on the path of the great human adventure. Martin and Cheese-
Face were two savages, of the stone age, of the squatting place and the
tree refuge. They sank lower and lower into the muddy abyss, back into
the dregs of the raw beginnings of life, striving blindly and chemically,
as atoms strive, as the star-dust if the Martin Eden page 63 Martin Eden page 65 |