The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [209]
The older guys walked off. Studs was winded. His arms were leaden. His back ached. He had a headache and cuts inside his lip and jaw. He hoped they’d suggest sitting down on a bench or in the grass.
“There’s little difference in the world between sparring with gloves on and fighting with your fists. If I was using my fists and really trying, I’d have massacred that snotty little punk, O’Neill,” Red said.
Studs agreed. Hated O’Neill for having taken the gloves home. Still he felt that he couldn’t have gone another round. “The punks took you guys,” Barney said.
“So says you! You toothless, dried-up Irish bastard!” Red said with venom.
“That Morgan kid is clever. He could make a monkey out of punks like O’Neill,” Red said.
“He slugged, too,” Doyle said.
“He gave me a good workout. He’s clever. I think I’ll put the gloves on with him again. With a little coaching, he’ll be a sweet young fighter,” Studs said.
He waited for them to say he’d outpointed the kid. Well, he had, Studs thought, trying to lie to himself. One of his punches was worth six of the kid’s. Their non-committal remarks hurt him.
“I’m not in the best condition, and I think a few more work-outs like that will do me good,” Studs said.
“Yeah, he is good. He got in some nice lefts,” Red said. He continued: “But I still say it’s totally different, just boxing good-naturedly with gloves, and going to it with fists. That’s why I told that snotty O’Neill so. I don’t want him to think he can get tough now, because if he does, I’ll slough him,” Red said.
Studs agreed. Doyle said that if he had ridden a bicycle, he could have caught O’Neill. Barney sneered at them. Studs was glad when Tommy suggested they sit on a bench on the short walk near the boathouse. He brooded, and the whole thing about Lucy came back to him.
“You know, boys, the goddamn shines are getting too frisky coming around here,” Red said.
“You Irish oughtn’t to kick. You and the niggers can both look up to a snake,” Keefe said.
“I came around the boathouse last Sunday, and it stunk with niggers. You know, it’s so bad, that a decent girl can’t walk alone here any more for fear a nigger might rape her. They ruin the park. When they come over here, you need a gas-mask if you want to stick around... Why, you can tell they are inferior to the white race by the clothes they wear. Those goddamn loud clothes, wearing pearls in their bell-bottoms, purple suits, pink shirts. They’re worse than the Polacks. You know, you can tell an inferior race by the way they dress. The Polacks and Dagoes, and niggers are the same, only the niggers are the lowest. That’s why I say we ought to get the boys together some night and clean every nigger out of the park. They’re all yellow and if we do it once, they won’t come back. We can get a few billies and clubs, and if they try to use razors, make them just wish they hadn’t.”
Barney told Red to hire a hall. Shrimp agreed with Red, and Barney kidded him, saying he’d run if he saw a mammy coming after him. Doyle said that it always turned out the same way. If you give a nigger an inch, he always took a mile.
Studs wished there was something distracting to do, wished he could get Lucy out of his mind. He was pooped and felt that he was slipping because of what Morgan had done to him. The cuts inside his face hurt. Finally they walked over to the Bug Club.
III
They saw a crowd at the Bug Club near the hills by the Cottage Grove side of the park. There was one large circle, many smaller groups and numbers milling about.
“Well, I say that the world is coming to an end,” Studs said, pleased when people from various groups frowned at him.
“The Bug Club will save the world, and drive everybody to drink or hell,” Red shouted.
Smirking, they edged into a group, and saw, in the center, a well-fed, hefty, elderly,