The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [309]
“Did you smell his breath? He’s drunk as a soldier, if you ask me. Certainly isn’t a good example to us who are new members.”
“Something ought to be done about him,” Studs said.
“Say, do you understand English, or are you another one of these Polacks who speak a foreign language?”
“You ain’t got no right to get personal,” a hurt voice replied, and another low grumble spread through the room. “And what’s your name?”
“I’m blind,” a quavering voice replied.
“This man is blind, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Did I ask you for any advice?”
“But this man is blind.”
“I heard you the first time! Snap in there with him—this isn’t an all-day coming-out party!” the sergeant-at-arms exclaimed, turning from the blind man to edge toward the center of the room, where he frowned, placed his hands on his hips, and raised his voice. “We’re going out of here to get started with the ceremonies of this degree when you fellows cooperate with me, and prove that you’re at least half-intelligent and can understand the English language. I forgot my Polish dictionary, and I can’t speak Italian or Hungarian, and I don’t know Gaelic. So I’ll have to give you instructions in English with my apologies. Now come on, line up!”
With the echo of grumbling and shuffling feet, Studs got into a line along the wall. He hoped that everyone would stop giving the monkey arguments so they could get going. “Let’s get started,” someone called out.
“We ought to get that guy outside after it’s all over,” Studs said low to a muscular fellow before him.
“If he keeps on like this, we won’t have to wait until then,” the fellow replied.
“Is it necessary to continue like this? You know, we’re not cattle,” the priest said in a low voice of controlled anger, and Studs, silently applauding the clergyman, thought it ought to tone down that damn red-robed clown.
“I didn’t ask for your two-cents’ worth,” the sergeant-at-arms quickly retorted in an insulting tone, while the room waited in awed and taut silence.
Studs shook his head uncomprehendingly. Insulting a priest! He’d never seen that done before. And an officer of the Christys doing it, too! That guy was just passing out hints that he wanted to be mobbed. And boy, wouldn’t Studs just love to jam his fists between the rat’s eyes!
“I’m a priest and I do not propose to be insulted by you!” the clergyman said stiffly.
“You tell him, Father, we’re with you!”
“Don’t let him pull anything on you, Father!”
“Let’s get going!”
“BOOOOOOO!”
“And I’m conducting this initiation...”
“Pipe down!” a bull voice called out, and many stamped their feet in unison.
Studs tried to crowd forward, but couldn’t break through the solid wall of backs.
“Priest or no priest, the sooner you get into line the better off we’ll all be!”
Studs, leaping quickly up on his toes, caught sight of the fellow’s face. Hard, tough, didn’t seem afraid. Certainly wasn’t the kind of fellow to meet in a dark alley.
“We have the right to ask that you be civil to us,” the priest said.
“Get in line. You’re no better than anyone else in here.”
“Help! Help!”
Heads turned. Studs saw beside him a quivering, thin, sickly-faced young man of about twenty-five, who looked as if he were going to throw a fit. The mere sight of him almost shocked Studs into a state of irresolution. He was afraid, looking at that distorted face. The sick man sagged. A stream of blood shot out of his mouth, splattering Studs’ shirt collar and coat lapel. The sick man was caught under the arms and held before he hit the floor. There was a minor stampede about him, and Studs, wiping his bloody neck and soiled clothes, was jammed back.
“Man’s fainted!”
“Get a doctor!”
“Gangway!”
“Pipe down!” the sergeant-at-arms bellowed. A pushing wave carried Studs forward, his neck sticky, a semi-coagulating stream trickling under his shirt.. The sick man emitted a shrill, pitiful moan.
“Open the door!”
“Man’s died!”
“Give him air!”
“Get a doctor!”
Another wave dragged Studs forward.
“Get that guy!”
“Sock