The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [46]
Studs said that all kids stayed out, sitting on someone’s porch, or in the grass in front of someone’s house, talking and there wasn’t anything wrong with it, because it was so nice in the evening. And the other kids’ fathers didn’t care. Mr. O’Brien never kicked about Johnny being out, and Johnny O’Brien was younger than he was.
“If Johnny O’Brien jumps in the river, do you have to?” That was the way his old man always was!
Studs just stood there. The old man told him to save something for another day. Studs sulked, and told himself there wasn’t any use arguing with his old man and old lady. They just didn’t understand.
The old man brought out a Lefty Locke baseball book, which he had bought for Studs and forgotten to give him.
He said it would be a good thing if Studs stayed in and read it. Studs ought to do more reading anyway, because reading always improved a person’s mind. Studs sat down, pouted and read the book for about ten minutes. But Lefty Locke wasn’t anything at all like Rube Waddell; it was a goofy book. He fidgeted. Then he said hesitantly that he’d like to take a little walk, and the old man, disappointed, said all right.
When Studs met the guys, he told them that he’d won a scrap with the old man. That evening they played tin-tin with the girls, and Studs kissed Lucy. It made him forget that his old man and his old lady and home weren’t what sisters and priests made them out to be at school and at Mass on Sundays.
IV
It was a hot early July afternoon, and life, along Indiana Avenue, was crawlingly lazy. A brilliant sun scorched the impoverished trees and sucked energy from the frail breezes that simpered off a distant Lake Michigan.
The gang had all gone swimming, and Studs had not felt like going home for his suit. Danny O’Neill was at the corner of Fifty-eighth, playing a baseball game by himself with a golf ball. He threw the ball at the ledge on the side of Levin’s tiled wall. Every time it struck the ledge, and the rebound was caught, a run was counted. Every throw was a time at bat. Danny played away, happy and contented by himself. Studs stood across the street, hands on hips, watching, shaking his head because he couldn’t make out goofy O’Neill. He could have such a swell time by himself, playing some goofy baseball game or other or just sitting down playing knife. Danny was such a crack knife player that no one would play pull the peg with him. He was goofy, though. Studs crossed the street and said:
“Hello, Goof!”
They played the baseball game, and Danny beat Studs four times. Studs didn’t like to get beat at anything, so he quit playing. He pulled Danny’s cap over his eyes, almost bending the punk’s glasses, and said:
“You’re dizzy!”
He started tip-tapping with the kid, telling him that he was a good young battler but needed training. Studs said he was going to train Danny so he could lick any punk in the neighborhood. They tip-tapped. Studs let loose a rough slap, telling Danny he had to learn to take it. The slap hurt, but Danny bit his lip and didn’t cry. They sparred, tapping easily. Danny stepped around Studs and slapped him with lefts. Studs hauled off, and let Danny have a pretty stiff one. Danny bit his lip.
He was the kid who could take punishment, so he didn’t cry. Studs put his hands on his hips, and looked surprised at the shrimp, as if to say, Christ, but you’re goofy. They sparred on, and Studs kept hauling off on Danny, training him to take punishment. Then Studs told O’Neill he’d show him some tricks in scientific fighting. Studs got on tip-toe, danced and lumbered around, and almost fell over his own feet. So he gave the punk a vicious slap in the puss. Breathless, they paused.
“You’re good! you kin clean up any of the punks around here, even ivory-domed Andy Le Gare. None of them can hurt you,” Studs said.
“It’s because I know how to breathe. You see, when the kids fight, they breathe out of their