Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [320]
“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 him!”
“Get a doctor!”
“Open the door!”
Studs, caught up in this excitement, lowered his head, crashed forward. Just as he got close to the sergeant-at-arms, an aisle seemed to open to the door, and the sergeant-at-arms shot through it, slamming the door behind him. They pounded on the door, milled, crashed into each other, shoved purposelessly, grumbling with rage, and the sick man again moaned pitifully.
“Open the door!”
“There’s a man dying!”
“Open that goddamn door!”
“Break it down!”
The sick man moaned.
“Man dead!”
“Open that goddamn door!”
III
The door opened, and the head of the sergeant-at-arms appeared in the doorway.
“Get him!”
The cry rose, and the candidates like an irresistible flood surged forward. A jam at the narrow door impeded their exit, and as they drove through by brute pressure, breaking loudly and wildly into a large hall, the sergeant-at-arms gained distance on them.
“Get him! Catch him!” Studs bellowed like a maniac, breathlessly streaking down the center of the hall. The sergeant-at-arms dashed safely ahead, his robe flying behind him as he passed rows of empty camp chairs, and a stand upon which a sharp-nosed man in a ceremonial red robe stood awed. He escaped through a wedge in the solid wall of black-hooded figures formed behind the stand, and when the mob of initiates reached it, the black-hooded figures closed tightly, preventing any break. Their voices rising into a babble, the initiates turned and milled about the stand.
Exhausted, his chest paining, his heart racing, Studs gasped at the edge of the crowd. He stared around the hall and saw, on all sides, a silent wall of hooded, black figures. This was too much for him, he thought, gasping again for breath.
“Please, please, gentlemen! What is the meaning of all this?” the sharp-nosed man on the stand called in a surprised and squeaky voice, rapping on the wooden railing with a gavel.
“We’ll get that rat!”
“Drunk, and insulting a priest!”
“He’s no better than a murderer!”
Studs, slowly regaining his breath, wondered what had happened to the blind man and the lad who’d gotten sick and puked blood all over him. Couldn’t the fellow have just tried croaking all over somebody else? He spotted the blind man quivering nervously in a chair. Lucky he hadn’t been stepped on, all right!
“Bring him out!”
“Massacre the rat!”
“String him up!”
“Gentlemen, what’s all this? Goodness, I never witnessed such disorder before at an initiation.”
“He socked a blind man and insulted a priest. Send him out!”
“Hand him over!”
Studs looked up at the squeaky-voiced master-of-ceremonies. Judge Gorman, he realized in surprise.
“Please, order, gentlemen, order, and let us know the cause of this outburst!”
“We’re not interested in jawing. Fish up that rat for us!”
“Who? What? Hit a blind man, what’s this?” the Judge called out, a shocked expression on his thin face.
“We want that guy!” Studs bellowed to get back into the excitement, and he smiled when others took up his cry and megaphoned it through their