• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Shrimp said that a priest named Doneggan was there when he died,” Taite said.

“We’ll have to take up a collection for flowers,” suggested Red.

“Jesus, he’s one poor bastard who ended up behind the eight ball,” Slug said.

“He can’t be dead. Why he was so young, he never lived,” said Bob Connell.

“Say, punk, how old are you?” asked Kelly.

“Sixteen,” said Hennessey.

“Punks like you should be seen and not heard,” Kelly said.

“Poor Paulie,” sighed Les.

XXV

“Say, let’s give the Greek the finger on this game,” said Lyman.

“O.K.,” said Young Rocky.

Lyman aimed to shoot the fifteen ball for game in slop pool. He missed, and poked the ball in a pocket with his cue.

“Pay up!” he hollered.

“I will like hell,” said Young Rocky.

“You lost,” said Lyman.

“Gimme! Gimme!” said Mike to both of them.

“See him,” said Lyman.

“That bastard is trying to cheat me. I won,” said Young Rocky.

“Come ona, you fellahs, what’s a the matter?” asked George, coming over.

“I won’t pay. He shoved the game ball in with his cue.”

“Pay up, you tight heel. I made it fair and square,” said Lyman.

“You’re a liar!” said Young Rocky.

“Don’t call me a liar!” said Lyman.

“No! Well, it’s double,” said Young Rocky.

“Come on outside,” said Lyman.

“Here! Pay, pay, pay!” said Mike.

“I’ll brain you guys with a cue,” threatened George.

Lyman and Young Rocky grabbed their coats, and dashed to the door, followed by an expectant group. At the door they turned and yelled in unison.

“Finger! Finger Greek!”

They laughed and walked away, arm-in-arm.

XXVI

“Quarter after one!” said Slug, standing with Mike at the window.

They heard the click of the cue balls from the back where Stan Simonsky was practicing. An elevated train rumbled. An automobile whizzed by. A heavy-footed, well-formed girl passed.

“How you like it?”

“Push-Push!” mumbled Mike.

VII

It was Saturday night. A cardboard picketing sign, letters turned downwards, lay in a corner of the small, disorderly bedroom. Mr. Le Gare looked at it. He felt like a dead man who had returned to life.

Blacklisted!

No hotel in the city would hire him. He had been a waiter all his life. What work could he do now?

When he had told his family, their faces had dropped. They were discussing it now in the dining room. They had opposed his striking, picketing the Shrifton Hotel, and serving on the strike committee, acting as treasurer for the union. They said nothing; but their silence was more criticizing than anything they might say. He had supported them for years. Now they were irked, lest he be a burden to them. Well, by God, he wouldn’t.

But what else could he do?

He had been sold out, and made the goat. Most of the other waiters had crawled back on their knees, begging for their jobs at any salary, under any condition. Yellow Scabs/ They had betrayed him, betrayed the cause of the American working man. They had betrayed themselves. The rankling of defeat and disappointment grew upon him until he cursed, using the filthiest words he knew.

The blacklist meant the dust heap, the garbage can, for a man his age. And his sons, daughter, wife, didn’t understand; it was tragedy, living with people who couldn’t understand what a man was doing. Only Andy stuck by him. But Andy didn’t have a very good brain, poor boy. Andy, whose brain was not so good, alone of his children had been loyal. But Andy did not understand either.

He wasn’t a fool! He wasn’t! He had been right. And they needn’t have lost the strike, if only they had all shown unity, courage, heart. But they, foreigners, Syrian busboys, fat Dutch-men, foreigners, hadn’t been interested in strikes. They wanted Shrifton’s crumbs. They wanted their tips. They had come over, not to make America their home, but to milk it as well as they could, and go back. They had their stocks, and some of them owned buildings. They served the rich, and tried to think that they were rich. All waiters, almost, did that; aped the rich, and thought that some day they would be rich. Scabs!

Suddenly, he laughed with twisted joy. They had sold themselves for nothing.