Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [101]
“Too bad we can’t get more of the guys to go,” Studs said.
“Aw, they’re yellow! They all said they would, and where are they? Tommy Doyle, today of all days, giving us that crap that he has to help his old man. Say, that bastard hasn’t helped his old man or old woman do anything since he was an infant. That crap!”
“Yes,” said Studs, thrilling with a feeling of his superior courage.
“And Weary Reilley, the tough guy, saying they can keep their war,” said Red.
“His name ought to be Schultz or Hoffman, the way he talks,” said Studs.
“Well, let ’em. We’ll do our duty, and we’ll have our fun, too. With Kenny around we’ll have a hell of a time,” said Red.
“And if we do get killed, it’ll be for our flag, and you know, a soldier dying for his country don’t have to worry about going to Hell. It’s like a martyr’s death,” said Studs.
“We won’t get killed. We’ll just kill the Germans,” said Red.
“What’ll we join?” asked Studs.
“I’m all for joining the marines,” said Red.
“Me too, the devil dogs,” said Studs.
“There’s where that screwy big elephant Jeff lives,” said Red, pointing to a three-story apartment building next to a vacant lot between Fifty-ninth and Sixtieth on Prairie Avenue.
“The punks all over the neighborhood are digging trenches,” said Studs, pointing at trenches which had been dug in the vacant lot.
“It’ll be nice coming around on leave in devil-dog uniforms before we go across,” said Red.
“Yeah,” said Studs, thinking of how he would go to mass in his uniform, receive everybody’s congratulations, even be seen by Lucy. And he’d go back and see Battling Bertha too.
“We’ll be among the first from the neighborhood to go. Lee Cole was the first. But that’ll be something, because after all, we’re younger, and not even expected to fight,” said Red.
“Yeah,” said Studs, a sense of martyrdom and nobility plunging extravagantly within him.
“I’m kind of anxious to get the thing settled, and sign on the dotted line,” said Red.
“Me too,” said Studs.
They sat on a fence at Sixtieth and Prairie Avenue in front of the home where that punk from St. Patrick’s, Morrie Regan, lived.
“Say, maybe we can get in just as we are,” said Red.
“We hadn’t better take any chances. I only weigh a hundred and ten pounds, and Kenny’s lighter. How about you?”
“I’m about one nine,” said Red.
“We better eat the bananas,” said Studs.
“You’re pretty anxious,” said Red, as Studs got up and walked in front of him.
“Kind of,” said Studs, running his words together.
“I can understand it.”
“Suppose he gets caught?” said Studs, glancing north.
“Kenny never gets caught.”
“Hello, fellows. . . . Say, got a fag?” asked Three Star Hennessey.
“Go on home and wash your face,” Red said.
“Don’t be a heel,” said Hennessey.
“Why don’t you go to school? The truant officer will be nabbing you, and your old man will kick your ears off,” said Studs, with the superior sneer warranted by age and size.
“Say, what you guys doing today?” Hennessey asked.
“Nothin’,” said Red with obvious mysteriousness, and winked at Studs.
“Hey, punk, blow!” Studs commanded.
“Aw, come on, Studs, what did I ever do to you?”
“I’ll give you just about five seconds to remove yourself from sight,” said Red.
“This place is free. I don’t have to, if I want to stay here.”
“No?”
“No!” whined Hennessey.
“For the last time. . . . Blow!”
Hennessey stood there gritting his teeth. Red kicked him in the tail. He bawled.
“Need another invitation?” asked Studs.
“You don’t own this sidewalk,” Hennessey sniveled, snot running from his nose.
Red slapped his face. Studs booted him one.
“If you don’t blow now, I’ll kill you, you little. . . .”
Hennessey ran, yelling back wait till he got his gat.
Kenny rode up whooping, with a basket full of bananas. They congratulated him again. He imitated the way the dago peddler had shagged him. But there had been no one on the street so it had been a cinch. They went to Kenny’s basement.
“Here goes,” said Red, peeling his first banana, as they sat on boxes.
“Well, Kenny, how’ll you like it in the trenches?” asked Studs.
“Me, I’ll be