Maggie: A Girl of the Streets (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Stephen Crane

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      “Ho,” she said, with a great grunt of contempt. “An’ what in the devil are you stickin’ your nose for?”

      The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner drew his legs carefully beneath him.

      The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots on the back part of the stove.

      “Go teh hell,” he murmured, tranquilly.

      The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband’s eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly crimson. She began to howl.

      He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos of back yards.

      “You’ve been drinkin’, Mary,” he said. “You’d better let up on the bot’, ol’ woman, or you’ll git done.”

      “You’re a liar. I ain’t had a drop,” she roared in reply.

      They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each other’s souls with frequence.

      The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face working in his excitement.

      The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the urchin lay.

      “Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?” she whispered timidly.

      “Not a damn bit! See?” growled the little boy.

      “Will I wash deh blood?”

      “Naw!”

      “Will I—”

      “When I catch dat Riley kid I’ll break ‘is face! Dat’s right! See?”

      He turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide his time.

      In the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor. The man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently determined upon a vengeful drunk. She followed to the door and thundered at him as he made his way down stairs.

      She returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing about like bubbles.

      “Git outa deh way,” she persistently bawled, waving feet with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children. She shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes that hissed.

      She flourished it. “Come teh yer suppers, now,” she cried with sudden exasperation. “Hurry up, now, er I’ll help yeh!”

      The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach. Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces between his wounded lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress.

      The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle. After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove. She rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears and crooning miserably to the two children about their “poor mother” and “yer fader, damn ‘is soul.”

      The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with a dish-pan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes.

      Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances at his mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in drunken heat. He sat breathless.

      Maggie broke a plate.

      The mother started to her feet as if propelled.

      “Good Gawd,” she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with sudden hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to purple. The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in an earthquake.

      He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He stumbled, panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a door. A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin’s quivering face.

      “Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin’ yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin’ yer fader?”

Chapter III

      JIMMIE AND THE OLD WOMAN LISTENED LONG IN THE HALL. ABOVE THE MUFFLED roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and a subdued bass muttering.

      The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of “God bless yehs” pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity.

      Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said: “The police, damn ‘em.”

      “Eh, Jimmie, it’s cursed shame,” she said. “Go, now, like a dear an’ buy me a can, an’ if yer mudder raises ‘ell all night yehs can sleep here.”

      Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed. He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar. Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them. Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left.

      In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure. It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs.

      “Give me deh can. See?” said the man, threateningly.

      “Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol’ woman an’ it ‘ud be dirt teh swipe it. See?” cried Jimmie.

      The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping movement and the beer was gone.

      The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street, Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father’s shins.

      “Look at deh dirt what СКАЧАТЬ