AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY. Theodore Dreiser

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      “Oh, say, Kinsella,” called Higby. “Do you remember that little red head in that Pacific Street joint that wanted you to run away to Chicago with her?”

      “Do I?” replied the amused Kinsella, taking up the Martini that was just then served him. “She even wanted me to quit the hotel game and let her start me in a business of some kind. ‘I wouldn’t need to work at all if I stuck by her,’ she told me.”

      “Oh, no, you wouldn’t need to work at all, except one way,” called Ratterer.

      The waiter put down Clyde’s glass of Rhine wine and seltzer beside him and, interested and intense and troubled and fascinated by all that he heard, he picked it up, tasted it and, finding it mild and rather pleasing, drank it all down at once. And yet so wrought up were his thoughts that he scarcely realized then that he had drunk it.

      “Good for you,” observed Kinsella, in a most cordial tone. “You must like that stuff.”

      “Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Clyde.

      And Hegglund, seeing how swiftly it had gone, and feeling that Clyde, new to this world and green, needed to be cheered and strengthened, called to the waiter: “Here Jerry! One more of these, and make it a big one,” he whispered behind his hand.

      And so the dinner proceeded. And it was nearly eleven before they had exhausted the various matters of interest to them — stories of past affairs, past jobs, past feats of daring. And by then Clyde had had considerable time to meditate on all of these youths — and he was inclined to think that he was not nearly as green as they thought, or if so, at least shrewder than most of them — of a better mentality, really. For who were they and what were their ambitions? Hegglund, as he could see, was vain and noisy and foolish — a person who could be taken in and conciliated by a little flattery. And Higby and Kinsella, interesting and attractive boys both, were still vain of things he could not be proud of — Higby of knowing a little something about automobiles — he had an uncle in the business — Kinsella of gambling, rolling dice even. And as for Ratterer and Shiel, he could see and had noticed for some time, that they were content with the bell-hop business — just continuing in that and nothing more — a thing which he could not believe, even now, would interest him forever.

      At the same time, being confronted by this problem of how soon they would be wanting to go to a place into which he had never ventured before, and to be doing things which he had never let himself think he would do in just this way, he was just a little disturbed. Had he not better excuse himself after they got outside, or perhaps, after starting along with them in whatsoever direction they chose to go, quietly slip away at some corner and return to his own home? For had he not already heard that the most dreadful of diseases were occasionally contracted in just such places — and that men died miserable deaths later because of low vices begun in this fashion? He could hear his mother lecturing concerning all this — yet with scarcely any direct knowledge of any kind. And yet, as an argument per contra, here were all of these boys in nowise disturbed by what was in their minds or moods to do. On the contrary, they were very gay over it all and amused — nothing more.

      In fact, Ratterer, who was really very fond of Clyde by now, more because of the way he looked and inquired and listened than because of anything Clyde did or said, kept nudging him with his elbow now and then, asking laughingly, “How about it, Clyde? Going to be initiated to-night?” and then smiling broadly. Or finding Clyde quite still and thinking at times, “They won’t do more than bite you, Clyde.”

      And Hegglund, taking his cue from Ratterer and occasionally desisting from his own self-glorifying diatribes, would add: “You won’t ever be de same, Clyde. Dey never are. But we’ll all be wid you in case of trouble.”

      And Clyde, nervous and irritated, would retort: “Ah, cut it out, you two. Quit kidding. What’s the use of trying to make out that you know so much more than I do?”

      And Ratterer would signal Hegglund with his eyes to let up and would occasionally whisper to Clyde: “That’s all right, old man, don’t get sore. You know we were just fooling, that’s all.” And Clyde, very much drawn to Ratterer, would relent and wish he were not so foolish as to show what he actually was thinking about.

      At last, however, by eleven o’clock, they had had their fill of conversation and food and drink and were ready to depart, Hegglund leading the way. And instead of the vulgar and secretive mission producing a kind of solemnity and mental or moral self-examination and self-flagellation, they laughed and talked as though there was nothing but a delicious form of amusement before them. Indeed, much to Clyde’s disgust and amazement, they now began to reminisce concerning other ventures into this world — of one particular one which seemed to amuse them all greatly, and which seemed to concern some “joint,” as they called it, which they had once visited — a place called “Bettina’s.” They had been led there originally by a certain wild youth by the name of “Pinky” Jones of the staff of another local hotel. And this boy and one other by the name of Birmingham, together with Hegglund, who had become wildly intoxicated, had there indulged in wild pranks which all but led to their arrest — pranks which to Clyde, as he listened to them, seemed scarcely possible to boys of this caliber and cleanly appearance — pranks so crude and disgusting as to sicken him a little.

      “Oh, ho, and de pitcher of water de girl on de second floor doused on me as I went out,” called Hegglund, laughing heartily.

      “And the big fat guy on the second floor that came to the door to see. Remember?” laughed Kinsella. “He thought there was a fire or a riot, I bet.”

      “And you and that little fat girl, Piggy. ‘Member, Ratterer?” squealed Shiel, laughing and choking as he tried to tell of it.

      “And Ratterer’s legs all bent under his load. Yoo-hoo!” yelled Hegglund. “And de way de two of ’em finally slid down de steps.”

      “That was all your fault, Hegglund,” called Higby from Kinsella’s side. “If you hadn’t tried that switching stuff we never woulda got put out.”

      “I tell you I was drunk,” protested Ratterer. “It was the red-eye they sold in there.”

      “And that long, thin guy from Texas with the big mustache, will you ever forget him, an’ the way he laughed?” added Kinsella. “He wouldn’t help nobody ‘gainst us. ‘Member?”

      “It’s a wonder we weren’t all thrown in the street or locked up. Oh, gee, what a night!” reminisced Ratterer.

      By now Clyde was faintly dizzy with the nature of these revelations. “Switchin’.” That could mean but one thing.

      And they expected him to share in revels such as these, maybe. It could not be. He was not that sort of person. What would his mother and father think if they were to hear of such dreadful things? And yet —

      Even as they talked, they had reached a certain house in a dark and rather wide street, the curbs of which for a block or more on either side were sprinkled with cabs and cars. And at the corner, only a little distance away, were some young men standing and talking. And over the way, more men. And not a half a block farther on, they passed two policemen, idling and conversing. And although there was no light visible in any window, nor over any transom, still, curiously, there was a sense of vivid, radiant life. One could feel it in this dark street. Taxis spun and honked and two old-time closed carriages still in use rolled here and there, their curtains drawn. And doors slammed or opened and closed. And now and then a segment of bright inward light pierced the outward gloom and then disappeared again. Overhead on this night were many stars.

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