The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [308]
“Give us room! Room! This man is blind,” a husky voice shouted.
Amidst sudden crowding and shoving, a wave of constraint seemed to lay a band around everyone in the room. All thoughts, except curiosity and a fear lest some kind of trouble might start, were sucked out of Studs’ mind. He slowly edged himself toward the fellow who had called out, and he saw a blind man cowering and trembling on the arm of a plump, dark-browed fellow in a gray suit.
“Say, I wonder what’s the idea of all this?”
“That’s what we’re all wondering, lad.”
“It’s an initiation, isn’t it?”
“Hell of a way to run one, letting a blind man into a crowded room like this where he could get stepped on!”
Studs slipped back to lean against the wall. Aches extended down his legs like troublesome wires, and the soles of his feet were getting sore. He mopped his face and felt sweaty.
“I hope we get out of here by Christmas,” he said wearily.
II
“All right, you birds, line up!” a full-faced sergeant-at-arms in a red robe commanded before they had finished sighing with relief at his entrance.
There was a hasty and disorganized attempt to form several lines, and Studs hesitated between them.
“Get in there!” the sergeant-at-arms snapped, unceremoniously pushing a slowly responsive initiate; and Studs, catching his first good glimpse of the man, saw that he was a tough-looking customer with a hard expression and heavy brows.
“I will,” came a sulky voice.
“Well, do it and shut your trap! I haven’t got all day to fool around here!”
“All right!” the voice replied still with a trace of sulkiness.
“I don’t like his looks,” a fellow next to Studs mumbled. “Looks hard-boiled to me!”
“Oh, so you’re snotty, are you!” the sergeant-at-arms said with menacing irony.
“I can’t figure why he should come here in that manner. He’s acting as if he wanted to start a riot,” Studs remarked to the fellow next to him who had just spoken.
“Well, if that’s what he’s out for, he might be accommodated,” the fellow said, and Studs hoped that the initiation wouldn’t be broken up by a free-for-all.
“This is a free country and you got no right to order me around like I was a coolie.”
“Listen, wise boy! While you’re here, do what I tell you! I don’t need any instructions, so try and edify yourself with silence, because the Order is not particularly concerned with accepting loud-mouths.”
“He wouldn’t pull that crap on me!”
“Me, neither,” Studs said in a low voice.
“All right, let’s can the beefing and get going!” the fellow who had been passing remarks to Studs called out throatily, his head lowered.
“What’s your name?” the sergeant-at-arms said, glaring at Studs, after having brushed through to him.
“Me?” Studs asked in surprise, unwittingly pointing his right index finger at his chest.
“Yes, you, shrimp!”
“Lonigan.”
“A runt like you with an Irish name. The Holy Spirit must certainly have deserted old Erin,” he said with a contemptuous sneer, a mumble of low protest breaking out around the room.
“Why?” Studs asked, humiliated, wishing he was this baby’s size, knowing he was the center of attention.
“Listen, Loogan, or whatever your name is, I don’t need any help from you. If you want to hear the sound of your own voice, get up on a soap box after the ceremonies.”
“I didn’t say anything. It was somebody else,” Studs said tensely, writhing under the insult, wondering why the loudmouth next to him, who was nearer this one’s size, didn’t admit that he’d made the crack.
“Get in line!” the sergeant-at-arms said, turning away, before Studs could reply.
“Don’t let him put anything over on you, Shorty,” an oily fellow said.
“Jesus, I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say, because I hadn’t batted my mouth open,” Studs said, his face pallid.
And calling Studs Lonigan a runt and Shorty. God, he just wanted to break loose and start slugging