The Swede, tightly gripping his valise, tacked across the face of the
storm as if he carried sails. He was following a line of little naked,
gasping trees, which he knew must mark the way of the road. His face,
fresh from the pounding of Johnnie's fists, felt more pleasure than
pain in the wind and the driving snow. A number of square shapes
loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the houses of the main
body of the town. He found a street and made travel along it, leaning
heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a terrific blast caught
him.
He might have been in a deserted village. We picture the world as
thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of
the tempest pealing, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. One
viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour
of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling,
fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. The conceit
of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. One
was a coxcomb not to die in it. However, the Swede found a saloon.
In front of it an indomitable red light was burning, and the
snow-flakes were made blood color as they flew through the
circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining. The Swede pushed open
the door of the saloon and entered. A sanded expanse was before him,
and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. Down one
side of the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was leaning
upon his elbows listening to the talk of the men at the table. The
Swede dropped his valise upon the floor, and, smiling fraternally upon
the barkeeper, said, "Gimme some whiskey, will you?" The man placed a
bottle, a whiskey-glass, and a glass of ice-thick water upon the bar.
The Swede poured himself an abnormal portion of whiskey and drank it
in three gulps. "Pretty bad night," remarked the bartender,
indifferently. He was making the pretension of blindness which is
usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been seen that
he was furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on the face of
the Swede. "Bad night," he said again.
"Oh, it's good enough for me," replied the Swede, hardily, as he
poured himself some more whiskey. The barkeeper took his coin and
maneuvered it through its reception by the highly nickelled
cash-machine. A bell rang; a card labelled "20 cts." had appeared.
"No," continued the Swede, "this isn't too bad weather. It's good
enough for me."
"So?" murmured the barkeeper, languidly.
The copious drams made the Swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a trifle
heavier. "Yes, I like this weather. I like it. It suits me." It was
apparently his design to impart a deep significance to these words.
"So?" murmured the bartender again. He turned to gaze dreamily at the
scroll-like birds and bird-like scrolls which had been drawn with soap
upon the mirrors back of the bar.
"Well, I guess I'll take another drink," said the Swede, presently.
"Have something?"
"No, thanks; I'm not drinkin'," answered the bartender. Afterwards he
asked, "How did you hurt your face?"
The Swede immediately began to boast loudly. "Why, in a fight. I
thumped the soul out of a man down here at Scully's hotel."
The interest of the four men at the table was at last aroused.
"Who was it?" said one.
"Johnnie Scully," blustered the Swede. "Son of the man what runs it.
He will be pretty near dead for some weeks, I can tell you. I made a
nice thing of him, I did. He couldn't get up. They carried him in the
house. Have a drink?"
Instantly the men in some subtle way incased themselves in reserve.
"No, thanks," said one. The group was of curious formation. Two were
prominent local business men; one was the district-attorney; and one
was a professional gambler of the kind known as "square." But a
scrutiny of the group would not have enabled an observer to pick the
gambler from the men of more reputable pursuits. He was, in fact, a
man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and so
judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine
part of the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and
admired. People called him a thoroughbred. The fear and contempt with
which his craft was regarded was undoubtedly the reason that his quiet
dignity shone conspicuous above the quiet dignity of men who might be
merely hatters, billiard markers, or grocery-clerks. Beyond an
occasional unwary traveller, who came by rail, this gambler was
supposed to prey solely upon reckless and senile farmers, who, when
flush with good crops, drove into town in all the pride and confidence
of an absolutely invulnerable stupidity. Hearing at times in
circuitous fashion of the despoilment of such a farmer, the important
men of Romper invariably laughed in contempt of the victim, and, if
they thought of the wolf at all, it was with a kind of pride at the
knowledge that he would never dare think of attacking their wisdom and
courage. Besides, it was popular that this gambler had a real wife and
two real children in a neat cottage in a suburb, where he led an
exemplary home life; and when any one even suggested a discrepancy in
his character, the crowd immediately vociferated descriptions of this
virtuous family circle. Then men who led exemplary home lives, and men
who did not lead exemplary home lives, all subsided in a bunch,
remarking that there was nothing more to be said.
However, when a restriction was placed upon him--as, for instance,
when a strong clique of members of the new Pollywog Club refused to
permit him, even as a spectator, to appear in the rooms of the
organization--the candor and gentleness with which he accepted the
judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more
desperately partisan. He invariably distinguished between himself and
a respectable Romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner
actually appeared to be a continual broadcast compliment.
And one must not forget to declare the fundamental fact of his entire
position in Romper. It is irrefutable that in all affairs outside of
his business, in all matters that occur eternally and commonly between
man and man, this thieving card-player was so generous, so just, so
moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight the consciences
of nine-tenths of the citizens of Romper.
And so it happened that he was seated in this saloon with the two
prominent local merchants and the district-attorney.
The Swede continued to drink raw whiskey, meanwhile babbling at the
barkeeper and trying to induce him to indulge in potations. "Come on.
Have a drink. Come on. What--no? Well, have a little one, then. By
gawd, I've whipped a man to-night, and I want to celebrate. I whipped
him good, too. Gentlemen," the Swede cried to the men at the table,
"have a drink?"
"Ssh!" said the barkeeper.
The group at the table, although furtively attentive, had been
pretending to be deep in talk, but now a man lifted his eyes towards
the Swede and said, shortly, "Thanks. We don't want any more."
At this reply the Swede ruffled out his chest like a rooster. "Well,"
he exploded, "it seems I can't get anybody to drink with me in this
town. Seems so, don't it? Well!"
"Ssh!" said the barkeeper.
"Say," snarled the Swede, "don't you try to shut me up. I won't have
it. I'm a gentleman, and I want people to drink with me. And I want
'em to drink with me now. _Now_--do you understand?" He rapped the bar
with his knuckles.
Years of experience had calloused the bartender. He merely grew sulky.
"I hear you," he answered.
"Well," cried the Swede, "listen hard then. See those men over there?
Well, they're going to drink with me, and don't you forget it. Now you
watch."
"Hi!" yelled the barkeeper, "this won't do!"
"Why won't it?" demanded the Swede. He stalked over to the table, and
by chance laid his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. "How about
this?" he asked, wrathfully. "I asked you to drink with me."
The gambler simply twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. "My
friend, I don't know you."
"Oh, hell!" answered the Swede, "come and have a drink."
"Now, my boy," advised the gambler, kindly, "take your hand off my
shoulder and go 'way and mind your own business." He was a little,
slim man, and it seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic
patronage to the burly Swede. The other men at the table said nothing.
"What! You won't drink with me, you little dude? I'll make you then!
I'll make you!" The Swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the
throat, and was dragging him from his chair. The other men sprang up.
The barkeeper dashed around the corner of his bar. There was a great
tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the hand of the gambler. It
shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue, wisdom, power,
was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. The Swede fell with a
cry of supreme astonishment.
The prominent merchants and the district attorney must have at once
tumbled out of the place backward. The bartender found himself hanging
limply to the arm of a chair and gazing into the eyes of a murderer.
"Henry," said the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels
that hung beneath the bar-rail, "you tell 'em where to find me. I'll
be home, waiting for 'em." Then he vanished. A moment afterwards the
barkeeper was in the street dinning through the storm for help, and,
moreover, companionship.
The corpse of the Swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon
a dreadful legend that dwelt atop of the cash-machine: "This registers
the amount of your purchase."