Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [65]
It had promised to be a great summer for him and it was turning out pretty punk. And now it was one of those days, like the ones that came so often in mid-August. It was hot, but there was no sun; and the wind sounded like there were devils in it; and the leaves were all a solid, deep green. It was just that kind of a day. It made him feel different, glum; and his thoughts were queer and foggy, and he didn’t have the right words for them. There was the feeling that he wanted something, and he didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t stay put in one place, and he kept shifting about, doing all sorts of awkward things, looking far away, and not being satisfied with anything he did.
He didn’t go around Indiana any more, so he had walked up and down other streets and had ended up in the Carter Playground. He fooled around. He batted out stones. He climbed up the ladders and slid down, and didn’t mind doing that, but canned it, because the ladders were for young squirts. He sat on the edge of the slide and thought of Lucy, and of how he had scarcely seen her since that day. He liked Lucy. He liked her. He loved her, but after what had happened he was even ashamed to admit it to himself. He was a hard-boiled guy, and he had learned his lesson. He’d keep himself roped in tight after this when it came to girls. He wasn’t going to show his cards to nobody again. He sat on the slide. He got up and climbed the ladder. He slid down. He picked up pebbles and shot them as a guy shot marbles. He went to the fountain for a drink. He wished he could think of something he’d like to do.
He thought about how he had licked Weary Reilley and become such a big cheese around Indiana, and well, he had turned out to be a different kind of a big cheese now. He walked down to Cannon’s confectionery store near State and bought an ice cream cone. He licked the ice cream with his tongue so that it would last longer. When he returned to the playground, Red Kelly, Davey Cohen and Paulie were there. Guys had always wondered what sort of a showing Studs would make in a scrap with the lads from Fifty-eighth and Prairie, but none of them had ever bothered Studs. As he walked across the playground toward them, he suddenly wondered if any of them, if Red, would start something now. He saw Davey Cohen talking to Red, and pointing at him. When he got up to them, Red asked him if he thought he was tough. He asked Red why. Red said he just wanted to know if Studs thought he was tough, because if he was, well, he, Red Kelly, would knock a little of it out of him. He and Red looked at each other. Red spat. Studs spat. Davey said put a stick on Studs’ shoulders. Davey picked up a stick, and handed it to Paulie. After hesitating, Paulie placed it on Studs’ shoulder. Red glowered at Studs. Studs made faces back. Red spat from the corner of his mouth. Red knocked the stick off and said that he didn’t even bury his dead; he let them lie. They fought. Studs gave Red a bloody nose, and Red showed a yellow streak and quit; he walked off and said he’d square matters later. Davey and Paulie sidled around Studs. They asked him why he never hung out with their gang.
“We have a swell time all the time, better than the St. Patrick’s guys from Indiana,” Paulie said.
“Hell, they’re all mopes,” Studs said.
“Yeh, well, then come on around with us,” Davey said.
Studs said that he would.
Some young punks, Joe Coady and Denny Dennis, came around. Joe got the ball and bat from the instructor’s office, and they played moveup piggy.
Studs batted. Paulie pitched. He served one up to Studs. Studs leaned on it, and it went out to center field on the fly. Davey caught it.
Paulie batted, and Coady pitched. Studs went out to right field.
Coady twirled the ball.
Paulie didn’t hit it.
“Come on and pitch ’em right,” said Paulie.
“I’m pitchin’ right. What’s a matter?” asked Coady.
“Pitch ’em and cut it out,” Paulie said.
Studs told them to play and quit dynamitin