How neat and pure is the task of the chronicler who has the tale to tell
of a “good rousing fight” between boys or men who fight in the “good old
English way,” according to a model set for fights in books long before
Tom Brown went to Rugby. There are seconds and rounds and rules of
fair-play, and always there is great good feeling in the end--though
sometimes, to vary the model, “the Butcher” defeats the hero--and the
chronicler who stencils this fine old pattern on his page is certain of
applause as the stirrer of “red blood.” There is no surer recipe.
But when Herman and Verman set to 't the record must be no more than a
few fragments left by the expurgator. It has been perhaps sufficiently
suggested that the altercation in Mr. Schofield's stable opened with
mayhem in respect to the aggressor's nose. Expressing vocally his
indignation and the extremity of his pained surprise, Mr. Collins
stepped backward, holding his left hand over his nose, and striking at
Herman with his right. Then Verman hit him with the rake.
Verman struck from behind. He struck as hard as he could. And he struck
with the tines down--For, in his simple, direct African way he wished to
kill his enemy, and he wished to kill him as soon as possible. That was
his single, earnest purpose.
On this account, Rupe Collins was peculiarly unfortunate. He was plucky
and he enjoyed conflict, but neither his ambitions nor his anticipations
had ever included murder. He had not learned that an habitually
aggressive person runs the danger of colliding with beings in one of
those lower stages of evolution wherein theories about “hitting below
the belt” have not yet made their appearance.
The rake glanced from the back of Rupe's head to his shoulder, but it
felled him. Both darkies jumped full upon him instantly, and the three
rolled and twisted upon the stable-floor, unloosing upon the air sincere
maledictions closely connected with complaints of cruel and unusual
treatment; while certain expressions of feeling presently emanating from
Herman and Verman indicated that Rupe Collins, in this extremity, was
proving himself not too slavishly addicted to fighting by rule. Dan and
Duke, mistaking all for mirth, barked gayly.
From the panting, pounding, yelling heap issued words and phrases
hitherto quite unknown to Penrod and Sam; also, a hoarse repetition
in the voice of Rupe concerning his ear left it not to be doubted
that additional mayhem was taking place. Appalled, the two spectators
retreated to the doorway nearest the yard, where they stood dumbly
watching the cataclysm.
The struggle increased in primitive simplicity: time and again the
howling Rupe got to his knees only to go down again as the earnest
brothers, in their own way, assisted him to a more reclining position.
Primal forces operated here, and the two blanched, slightly higher
products of evolution, Sam and Penrod, no more thought of interfering
than they would have thought of interfering with an earthquake.
At last, out of the ruck rose Verman, disfigured and maniacal. With a
wild eye he looked about him for his trusty rake; but Penrod, in horror,
had long since thrown the rake out into the yard. Naturally, it had not
seemed necessary to remove the lawn-mower.
The frantic eye of Verman fell upon the lawn-mower, and instantly
he leaped to its handle. Shrilling a wordless war-cry, he charged,
propelling the whirling, deafening knives straight upon the prone
legs of Rupe Collins. The lawn-mower was sincerely intended to pass
longitudinally over the body of Mr. Collins from heel to head; and it
was the time for a death-song. Black Valkyrie hovered in the shrieking
air.
“Cut his gizzud out!” shrieked Herman, urging on the whirling knives.
They touched and lacerated the shin of Rupe, as, with the supreme agony
of effort a creature in mortal peril puts forth before succumbing, he
tore himself free of Herman and got upon his feet.
Herman was up as quickly. He leaped to the wall and seized the
garden-scythe that hung there.
“I'm go to cut you' gizzud out,” he announced definitely, “an' eat it!”
Rupe Collins had never run from anybody (except his father) in his life;
he was not a coward; but the present situation was very, very unusual.
He was already in a badly dismantled condition, and yet Herman and
Verman seemed discontented with their work: Verman was swinging the
grass-cutter about for a new charge, apparently still wishing to mow
him, and Herman had made a quite plausible statement about what he
intended to do with the scythe.
Rupe paused but for an extremely condensed survey of the horrible
advance of the brothers, and then, uttering a blood-curdled scream of
fear, ran out of the stable and up the alley at a speed he had never
before attained, so that even Dan had hard work to keep within barking
distance. And a 'cross-shoulder glance, at the corner, revealing Verman
and Herman in pursuit, the latter waving his scythe overhead, Mr.
Collins slackened not his gait, but, rather, out of great anguish,
increased it; the while a rapidly developing purpose became firm in his
mind--and ever after so remained--not only to refrain from visiting that
neighbourhood again, but never by any chance to come within a mile of
it.
From the alley door, Penrod and Sam watched the flight, and were without
words. When the pursuit rounded the corner, the two looked wanly at
each other, but neither spoke until the return of the brothers from the
chase.
Herman and Verman came back, laughing and chuckling.
“Hiyi!” cackled Herman to Verman, as they came, “See 'at ole boy run!”
“Who-ee!” Verman shouted in ecstasy.
“Nev' did see boy run so fas'!” Herman continued, tossing the scythe
into the wheelbarrow. “I bet he home in bed by viss time!”
Verman roared with delight, appearing to be wholly unconscious that the
lids of his right eye were swollen shut and that his attire, not too
finical before the struggle, now entitled him to unquestioned rank as a
sansculotte. Herman was a similar ruin, and gave as little heed to his
condition.
Penrod looked dazedly from Herman to Verman and back again. So did Sam
Williams.
“Herman,” said Penrod, in a weak voice, “you wouldn't HONEST of cut his
gizzard out, would you?”
“Who? Me? I don' know. He mighty mean ole boy!” Herman shook his head
gravely, and then, observing that Verman was again convulsed with
unctuous merriment, joined laughter with his brother. “Sho'! I guess I
uz dess TALKIN' whens I said 'at! Reckon he thought I meant it, f'm de
way he tuck an' run. Hiyi! Reckon he thought ole Herman bad man! No,
suh! I uz dess talkin', 'cause I nev' would cut NObody! I ain' tryin'
git in no jail--NO, suh!”
Penrod looked at the scythe: he looked at Herman. He looked at the
lawn-mower, and he looked at Verman. Then he looked out in the yard at
the rake. So did Sam Williams.
“Come on, Verman,” said Herman. “We ain' go' 'at stove-wood f' supper
yit.”
Giggling reminiscently, the brothers disappeared leaving silence behind
them in the carriage-house. Penrod and Sam retired slowly into the
shadowy interior, each glancing, now and then, with a preoccupied air,
at the open, empty doorway where the late afternoon sunshine was growing
ruddy. At intervals one or the other scraped the floor reflectively
with the side of his shoe. Finally, still without either having made
any effort at conversation, they went out into the yard and stood,
continuing their silence.
“Well,” said Sam, at last, “I guess it's time I better be gettin' home.
So long, Penrod!”
“So long, Sam,” said Penrod, feebly.
With a solemn gaze he watched his friend out of sight. Then he went
slowly into the house, and after an interval occupied in a unique
manner, appeared in the library, holding a pair of brilliantly gleaming
shoes in his hand.
Mr. Schofield, reading the evening paper, glanced frowningly over it at
his offspring.
“Look, papa,” said Penrod. “I found your shoes where you'd taken 'em
off in your room, to put on your slippers, and they were all dusty. So I
took 'em out on the back porch and gave 'em a good blacking. They shine
up fine, don't they?”
“Well, I'll be d-dud-dummed!” said the startled Mr. Schofield.
Penrod was zigzagging back to normal.