Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [70]
Nate paused to wipe the slobber off his whiskery chin.
“We gasses about one ting an’ anoder, and soon she ups and walks by me to go to the sink, so I pinches her, and it was de nicest I ever pinched, an’, my boy, I pinched many in my day, because I’m old enough to be yer grandaddy. Well, first ting you know . . .”
Nate leered.
“The first ting you know . . . why . . . I schlipt her a little luck.”
“Yeh?”
Nate poked Studs confidentially, leered, and said:
“Yeh, I schlipt her a little luck.”
“Yeh?”
“Yeh!”
Nate turned to gape at a passing chicken, and Studs goosed him. Nate jumped.
He shuffled away, furious, telling himself about the damn brats who got too wise before their diapers were changed.
Studs laughed.
He took out another chew, and resumed his competition. The right hand side of his mouth won easily. He thought of Lucy who was probably still sore at him. The old feeling for Lucy flowed through him, warm. She seemed to him like a . . . like a saint or a beautiful queen, or a goddess. But the tough outside part of Studs told the tender inside part of him that nobody really knew, that he had better forget all that bull. He tried to, and it wasn’t very easy. He let fly a juicy gob that landed square on a line, three cracks from him. Perfect! He saw Lucy, and acted very busy with his tobacco juice squirting. He let fly another gob that was a perfect hit. She laughed aloud at him, and said:
“Think you’re funny, Mr. Smarty!”
Studs let fly another gob. She laughed again, and walked on. Studs sat, not looking nor feeling so much like a tough guy. He didn’t turn and see Lucy twist around to glance at him. He threw his wad away. He sat, heedless of the noisy street. A dago peddler parked his fruit wagon in back of Studs, and he was there calling his wares for some time before Studs laughed, like he laughed at all batty foreigners. He thought of Lucy. Lucy . . . she could go plum to . . . LUCY! He shoved another thumb of tobacco in his puss, but didn’t chew it with the same concentration. He almost swallowed the damn stuff. Mr. Dennis P. Gorman passed, after his trying day at the police court. Studs coughed from the bad taste in his mouth.
Kenny Killarney appeared, and Studs smiled to see him. Kenny was thin, taller than Studs, Irish, blue-eyed, dizzy-faced, untidy, darkish, quick, and he had a nervous, original walk.
“Hi!” said Studs.
“Hi!” said Kenny, raising his palms, hands outward.
“Hi!” said Studs.
“Hi!” said Kenny; he salaamed in oriental fashion.
“Hi!” laughed Studs.
“Hi!” said Kenny.
“Hi!” said Studs. “Jesus Christ!” said Studs.
“Hi, Low, Jack, and the Game,” said goofy Kenny.
They laughed and stuffed chews in their faces. Studs marveled at Kenny’s skill in chewing. Juice rolled down his own chin, and he had to spit the tobacco out again.
Kenny gave a rambling talk. Studs didn’t listen, and only heard the end, when Kenny said:
“And I said I’m from Tirty-turd and de tracks, see, an’ I lives on de top floor ob de las’ house on de left-hand side of de street, and deres a skull an’ crossbones on de chimney, and blood on de door, and my back yard’s de graveyard for my dead.”
Studs laughed, because you had to laugh when Kenny pulled his gags. Kenny was a funny guy. He ought to be in vaudeville, even if he was still young.
“Well, Lonigan, you old so-and-so, what’s happening?”
“It’s dead as a doornail, you old sonofabitch,” Studs said.
Kenny looked at Studs; he told him not to say that; he cried:
“Take that back!”
“What’s eatin’ you?”
“Nothin’. But I don’t care if you’re kiddin’ or not. I love my mother, and she’s the only friend I got, and if I was hung tomorrow, she’d still be my mother, and be at my side forgivin’ me, and I can’t stand and let anybody call her names, even if it’s kiddin’; and I don’t care if you are Studs Lonigan and can fight, you can’t say anything about my mother,” Kenny said. He drew back a step, wiped the tears from his face with his shirt sleeve, and picked up a wooden slab that lay on the sidewalk.
Studs looked questioningly at Kenny, who stood