The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [58]
“Take it all back,” demanded Studs.
“No.”
Studs twisted.
An agonized yes.
Studs loosed his hold.
Paulie snatched Denny’s cap.
Denny begged for it.
They laughed at him. They threatened to hang his pants on the picket fence. Denny cried for his cap.
Paulie handed the cap to Studs. Denny ran toward Studs. Studs tossed it to Davey. Denny ran toward Davey. Davey passed it to Paulie. Denny picked up some boulders and moved toward Paulie. Paulie told the punk to drop the rocks while he knew he was well off. He passed the hat to Studs.
Studs wrapped some stones in it. He said to Denny: “Here it is!”
When Denny came to Studs, Studs threw the cap on the roof of Carter school.
Denny bawled, and yelled that his brother would get the whole bunch of them, and he got a kick in the slats for his mouthiness.
Studs, Paulie and Davey left the playground.
“You’ll get it like that,” Paulie yelled to Joe.
“Got to catch me first.”
“Let’s get him,” said Davey.
“Hell, we’d never catch him,” said Studs.
“We hadn’t better. He’s Tommy Doyle’s cousin,” said Davey. “Listen, Studs, you ought to hang around with us guys at Fifty-eighth and Prairie. You’ll have more fun,” said Paulie. Studs said he might. They told him how swell a scrapper he was.
“You’re as good as anyone on Fifty-eighth. You’re as good as Tommy Doyle,” said Davey.
Studs felt pretty good again. He felt powerful. Life was still opening up for him, as he’d expected it to, and it was still going to be a great summer. And it was a better day than he imagined. A sun was busting the sky open, like Studs Lonigan busted guys in the puss. It was a good day.
They walked on down toward the Fifty-eighth Street corner. Davey sniped a butt and lit it. Paulie jawed a hunk off his plug of tobacco. He offered some to Studs but Studs didn’t take it; chewing tobacco made him sick. Paulie’s pan was stuffed with tobacco. They walked along, all feeling pretty good.
Studs heard his mother calling him, and they hurried around the corner as if he didn’t hear her.
“What’ll we do?” asked Davey.
“What’ll we do?” asked Paulie.
“Let’s do something,” said Studs.
“Let’s,” said Davey.
They walked along. Studs took drag on Davey’s butt. Paulie got between them, putting an arm around each of their shoulders. They were a picture, walking along, Paulie with his fat hips, Davey with his bow legs, and small, broad Studs.
“We’ll find something to do,” said Davey.
“Sure,” said Paulie.
They walked along, looking for something to do.
SECTION THREE
CHAPTER SIX
I
Studs Lonigan, looking tough, sat on the fireplug before the drug store on the northeast corner of Fifty-eighth and Prairie. Since cleaning up Red Kelly, he, along with Tommy Doyle, had become a leading member of the Fifty-eighth Street bunch. Studs and Tommy were figured a good draw. Studs sat. His jaw was swollen with tobacco. The tobacco tasted bitter, and he didn’t like it, but he sat, squirting juice from the corner of his mouth, rolling the chewed wad from jaw to jaw. His cap was pulled over his right eye in hard-boiled fashion. He had a piece of cardboard in the back of his cap to make it square, just like all the tough Irish from Wentworth Avenue, and he had a bushy Regan haircut. He sat. He had a competition with himself in tobacco juice spitting to determine whether he could do better plopping it from the right or the left side of his mouth. The right-hand side was Studs; the left-hand side was a series of rivals, challenging him for the champion-ship. The contests were important ones, like heavyweight championship fights, and they put Studs Lonigan in the public eye, like Jess Willard and Freddy Welsh. Seriously, cautiously, concernedly, he let the brown juice fly, first from the left, then from the right side of his mouth. Now and then the juice slobbered down his chin, and that made Studs feel as goofy as if he was a young punk with falling socks.
People paraded to and fro along Fifty-eighth,