Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [325]
Studs turned pallid; his head became light. He saw himself dying as a result of this sacrifice. He wondered why this sacrifice of a pint of blood should be necessary, but his emotions swept this question out of his mind. He saw himself dying for the Order of Christopher, and the idea of himself becoming the martyred hero of this surprising afternoon gave him a sad thrill. He wanted to raise his hand. But he couldn’t very well, in his condition, afford to lose that much blood. He asked himself where was his guts? Guts would carry him through it alive. Here was a chance to show the real stuff in him, such as he had never gotten in his whole life.
“This act must be absolutely voluntary. We want to know whether or not you are prepared to pay for the privileges of membership with something dearer to you than mere money!” Judge Gorman said gravely, in a rising voice.
He could see that many around him were thinking it over, and the fellow who breathed with his mouth open like a fly-trap, right near him, looked like he might bust a brain cell.
“Any volunteers?”
Wanting still to raise his hand, he felt that it might kill him. Nearby a hairy hand was raised, and Studs saw that it was a sandy-haired fellow with football shoulders, one who looked like he could well afford to lose a pint of blood. Yellow? Studs Lonigan yellow? Without will or thought, he shot up his right hand, and said, with a rush of breath:
“I will!”
They were all looking at him, just as he had wanted them to. Look at him! Envy him! But he was uneasy. He tried to act unconcerned. He had made his decision, too, and he was going through with it and face the music. But suppose he would be, like that poor bastard Joyce, carried out of here in a six-foot box! He seemed shrivelling up inside, losing his strength, and he kept telling himself that he must pull together.
“I congratulate you two gentlemen who have volunteered. You have proven to us that you are the type of young men we desire to have enrolled in our Order. But once again, permit me to offer a word of caution. Once the volunteer has been decided upon as the man who is going to shed a pint of his blood for the Order of Christopher, then the die will have been cast, the Rubicon will have been crossed. He will be expected to go through with his sacrifice, no matter what the cost and the dangers.”
More eyes on him. That fat fellow in front of him, who looked like he had the mumps, his cheeks were so fat, smiling at him as if he were a goof. Studs knew his kind. The wise aleck, always interested only in himself, never showing any spirit. He prided himself that he was not like that. And he was ready, too!
“Heck, I can’t dope this out at all. What good does it do to have somebody give up a pint of good blood? If it was to save that poor bastard’s life, now, or for some reason, it would be all right,” a middle-aged man beside Studs asked in whispers.
“What good did it do Christ and the martyrs to sacrifice their blood?” a blond lad answered.
“I look at it this way. It’s a fine thing to belong to the Order, and we ought to be prepared to do something for it,” Studs said hesitantly, understanding clearly to himself why it was right, but not being able to put his understanding lucidly into words. He tried to remember the words Gorman had used in explanation, but he was distracted when another hand went up. Which of them would be the one? He hoped it wouldn’t be he. But that was reneging. He was ready, come what may. Only he wished it could be gotten over with. If he could walk out and get it over with this minute, it would be all right. This waiting. . . .
“All right, gentlemen, before we select the man, are there any more volunteers?”
“Bull,” a fellow close to Studs muttered under his breath.
They