CHAPTER III, "BRICK," "SORREL-TOP," AND "REDDY".
"What 's up?" Joe asked, as he joined Fred and Charley.
"Kites," Charley answered. "Come on. We 're tired out waiting for you."
The three set off down the street to the brow of the hill, where they
looked down upon Union Street, far below and almost under their feet.
This they called the Pit, and it was well named. Themselves they called
the Hill-dwellers, and a descent into the Pit by the Hill-dwellers was
looked upon by them as a great adventure.
Scientific kite-flying was one of the keenest pleasures of these three
particular Hill-dwellers, and six or eight kites strung out on a mile
of twine and soaring into the clouds was an ordinary achievement for
them. They were compelled to replenish their kite-supply often; for
whenever an accident occurred, and the string broke, or a ducking kite
dragged down the rest, or the wind suddenly died out, their kites fell
into the Pit, from which place they were unrecoverable. The reason for
this was the young people of the Pit were a piratical and robber race
with peculiar ideas of ownership and property rights.
On a day following an accident to a kite of one of the Hill-dwellers,
the self-same kite could be seen riding the air attached to a string
which led down into the Pit to the lairs of the Pit People. So it came
about that the Pit People, who were a poor folk and unable to afford
scientific kite-flying, developed great proficiency in the art when
their neighbors the Hill-dwellers took it up.
There was also an old sailorman who profited by this recreation of the
Hill-dwellers; for he was learned in sails and air-currents, and being
deft of hand and cunning, he fashioned the best-flying kites that could
be obtained. He lived in a rattletrap shanty close to the water, where
he could still watch with dim eyes the ebb and flow of the tide, and the
ships pass out and in, and where he could revive old memories of the days
when he, too, went down to the sea in ships.
To reach his shanty from the Hill one had to pass through the Pit, and
thither the three boys were bound. They had often gone for kites in the
daytime, but this was their first trip after dark, and they felt it to
be, as it indeed was, a hazardous adventure.
In simple words, the Pit was merely the cramped and narrow quarters
of the poor, where many nationalities crowded together in cosmopolitan
confusion, and lived as best they could, amid much dirt and squalor.
It was still early evening when the boys passed through on their way
to the sailorman's shanty, and no mishap befell them, though some of
the Pit boys stared at them savagely and hurled a taunting remark after
them, now and then.
The sailorman made kites which were not only splendid fliers but which
folded up and were very convenient to carry. Each of the boys bought a
few, and, with them wrapped in compact bundles and under their arms,
started back on the return journey.
"Keep a sharp lookout for the b'ys," the kite-maker cautioned them.
"They 're like to be cruisin' round after dark."
"We 're not afraid," Charley assured him; "and we know how to take care
of ourselves."
Used to the broad and quiet streets of the Hill, the boys were shocked
and stunned by the life that teemed in the close-packed quarter. It
seemed some thick and monstrous growth of vegetation, and that they
were wading through it. They shrank closely together in the tangle of
narrow streets as though for protection, conscious of the strangeness
of it all, and how unrelated they were to it.
Children and babies sprawled on the sidewalk and under their feet.
Bareheaded and unkempt women gossiped in the doorways or passed back
and forth with scant marketings in their arms. There was a general
odor of decaying fruit and fish, a smell of staleness and putridity.
Big hulking men slouched by, and ragged little girls walked gingerly
through the confusion with foaming buckets of beer in their hands.
There was a clatter and garble of foreign tongues and brogues, shrill
cries, quarrels and wrangles, and the Pit pulsed with a great and
steady murmur, like the hum of the human hive that it was.
"Phew! I 'll be glad when we 're out of it," Fred said.
He spoke in a whisper, and Joe and Charley nodded grimly that they agreed
with him. They were not inclined to speech, and they walked as rapidly as
the crowd permitted, with much the same feelings as those of travelers in
a dangerous and hostile jungle.
And danger and hostility stalked in the Pit. The inhabitants seemed to
resent the presence of these strangers from the Hill. Dirty little urchins
abused them as they passed, snarling with assumed bravery, and prepared
to run away at the first sign of attack. And still other little urchins
formed a noisy parade at the heels of the boys, and grew bolder with
increasing numbers.
"Don't mind them," Joe cautioned. "Take no notice, but keep right on.
We 'll soon be out of it."
"No; we 're in for it," said Fred, in an undertone. "Look there!"
On the corner they were approaching, four or five boys of about their
own age were standing. The light from a street-lamp fell upon them and
disclosed one with vivid red hair. It could be no other than "Brick"
Simpson, the redoubtable leader of a redoubtable gang. Twice within
their memory he had led his gang up the Hill and spread panic and
terror among the Hill-dwelling young folk, who fled wildly to their
homes, while their fathers and mothers hurriedly telephoned for the
police.
At sight of the group on the corner, the rabble at the heels of the
three boys melted away on the instant with like manifestations of
fear. This but increased the anxiety of the boys, though they held
boldly on their way.
The red-haired boy detached himself from the group, and stepped before
them, blocking their path. They essayed to go around him, but he stretched
out his arm.
"Wot yer doin' here?" he snarled. "Why don't yer stay where yer b'long?"
"We 're just going home," Fred said mildly.
Brick looked at Joe. "Wot yer got under yer arm?" he demanded.
Joe contained himself and took no heed of him. "Come on," he said to Fred
and Charley, at the same time starting to brush past the gang-leader.
But with a quick blow Brick Simpson struck him in the face, and with
equal quickness snatched the bundle of kites from under his arm.
Joe uttered an inarticulate cry of rage, and, all caution flung to the
winds, sprang at his assailant.
This was evidently a surprise to the gang-leader, who expected least of
all to be attacked in his own territory. He retreated backward, still
clutching the kites, and divided between desire to fight and desire to
retain his capture.
The latter desire dominated him, and he turned and fled swiftly down
the narrow side-street into a labyrinth of streets and alleys. Joe knew
that he was plunging into the wilderness of the enemy's country, but
his sense of both property and pride had been offended, and he took up
the pursuit hot-footed.
Fred and Charley followed after, though he outdistanced them, and behind
came the three other members of the gang, emitting a whistling call while
they ran which was evidently intended for the assembling of the rest of
the band. As the chase proceeded, these whistles were answered from many
different directions, and soon a score of dark figures were tagging at
the heels of Fred and Charley, who, in turn, were straining every muscle
to keep the swifter-footed Joe in sight.
Brick Simpson darted into a vacant lot, aiming for a "slip," as such
things are called which are prearranged passages through fences and
over sheds and houses and around dark holes and corners, where the
unfamiliar pursuer must go more carefully and where the chances are
many that he will soon lose the track.
But Joe caught Brick before he could attain his end, and together they
rolled over and over in the dirt, locked in each other's arms. By the
time Fred and Charley and the gang had come up, they were on their feet,
facing each other.
"Wot d' ye want, eh?" the red-headed gang-leader was saying in a bullying
tone. "Wot d' ye want? That 's wot I wanter know."
"I want my kites," Joe answered.
Brick Simpson's eyes sparkled at the intelligence. Kites were something
he stood in need of himself.
"Then you 've got to fight fer 'em," he announced.
"Why should I fight for them?" Joe demanded indignantly. "They 're mine."
Which went to show how ignorant he was of the ideas of ownership and
property rights which obtained among the People of the Pit.
A chorus of jeers and catcalls went up from the gang, which clustered
behind its leader like a pack of wolves.
"Why should I fight for them?" Joe reiterated.
"'Cos I say so," Simpson replied. "An' wot I say goes. Understand?"
But Joe did not understand. He refused to understand that Brick Simpson's
word was law in San Francisco, or any part of San Francisco. His love of
honesty and right dealing was offended, and all his fighting blood was up.
"You give those kites to me, right here and now," he threatened, reaching
out his hand for them.
But Simpson jerked them away. "D' ye know who I am?" he demanded. "I
'm Brick Simpson, an' I don't 'low no one to talk to me in that tone
of voice."
"Better leave him alone," Charley whispered in Joe's ear. "What are a
few kites? Leave him alone and let 's get out of this."
"They 're my kites," Joe said slowly in a dogged manner. "They 're my
kites, and I 'm going to have them."
"You can't fight the crowd," Fred interfered; "and if you do get the
best of him they 'll all pile on you."
The gang, observing this whispered colloquy, and mistaking it for
hesitancy on the part of Joe, set up its wolf-like howling again.
"Afraid! afraid!" the young roughs jeered and taunted. "He 's too
high-toned, he is! Mebbe he 'll spoil his nice clean shirt, and then
what 'll mama say?"
"Shut up!" their leader snapped authoritatively, and the noise obediently
died away.
"Will you give me those kites?" Joe demanded, advancing determinedly.
"Will you fight for 'em?" was Simpson's counter-demand.
"Yes," Joe answered.
"Fight! fight!" the gang began to howl again.
"And it 's me that 'll see fair play," said a man's heavy voice.
All eyes were instantly turned upon the man who had approached unseen and
made this announcement. By the electric light, shining brightly on them
from the corner, they made him out to be a big, muscular fellow, clad in
a working-man's garments. His feet were incased in heavy brogans, a narrow
strap of black leather held his overalls about his waist, and a black and
greasy cap was on his head. His face was grimed with coal-dust, and a
coarse blue shirt, open at the neck, revealed a wide throat and massive
chest.
"An' who 're you?" Simpson snarled, angry at the interruption.
"None of yer business," the newcomer retorted tartly. "But, if it 'll
do you any good, I 'm a fireman on the China steamers, and, as I said,
I 'm goin' to see fair play. That 's my business. Your business is to
give fair play. So pitch in, and don't be all night about it."
The three boys were as pleased by the appearance of the fireman as Simpson
and his followers were displeased. They conferred together for several
minutes, when Simpson deposited the bundle of kites in the arms of one
of his gang and stepped forward.
"Come on, then," he said, at the same time pulling off his coat.
Joe handed his to Fred, and sprang toward Brick. They put up their fists
and faced each other. Almost instantly Simpson drove in a fierce blow and
ducked cleverly away and out of reach of the blow which Joe returned. Joe
felt a sudden respect for the abilities of his antagonist, but the only
effect upon him was to arouse all the doggedness of his nature and make
him utterly determined to win.
Awed by the presence of the fireman, Simpson's followers confined
themselves to cheering Brick and jeering Joe. The two boys circled
round and round, attacking, feinting, and guarding, and now one and
then the other getting in a telling blow. Their positions were in marked
contrast. Joe stood erect, planted solidly on his feet, with legs wide
apart and head up. On the other hand, Simpson crouched till his head was
nearly lost between his shoulders, and all the while he was in constant
motion, leaping and springing and manoeuvering in the execution of a
score or more of tricks quite new and strange to Joe.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, both were very tired, though Joe was
much fresher. Tobacco, ill food, and unhealthy living were telling on
the gang-leader, who was panting and sobbing for breath. Though at first
(and because of superior skill) he had severely punished Joe, he was now
weak and his blows were without force. Growing desperate, he adopted
what might be called not an unfair but a mean method of attack: he would
manoeuver, leap in and strike swiftly, and then, ducking forward, fall
to the ground at Joe's feet. Joe could not strike him while he was down,
and so would step back until he could get on his feet again, when the
thing would be repeated.
But Joe grew tired of this, and prepared for him. Timing his blow with
Simpson's attack, he delivered it just as Simpson was ducking forward
to fall. Simpson fell, but he fell over on one side, whither he had
been driven by the impact of Joe's fist upon his head. He rolled over
and got half-way to his feet, where he remained, crying and gasping.
His followers called upon him to get up, and he tried once or twice,
but was too exhausted and stunned.
"I give in," he said. "I 'm licked."
The gang had become silent and depressed at its leader's defeat.
Joe stepped forward.
"I 'll trouble you for those kites," he said to the boy who was
holding them.
"Oh, I dunno," said another member of the gang, shoving in between
Joe and his property. His hair was also a vivid red. "You 've got
to lick me before you kin have 'em."
"I don't see that," Joe said bluntly. "I 've fought and I 've won,
and there 's nothing more to it."
"Oh, yes, there is," said the other. "I 'm 'Sorrel-top' Simpson.
Brick 's my brother. See?"
And so, in this fashion, Joe learned another custom of the Pit People
of which he had been ignorant.
"All right," he said, his fighting blood more fully aroused than ever
by the unjustness of the proceeding. "Come on."
Sorrel-top Simpson, a year younger than his brother, proved to be a
most unfair fighter, and the good-natured fireman was compelled to
interfere several times before the second of the Simpson clan lay on
the ground and acknowledged defeat.
This time Joe reached for his kites without the slightest doubt that
he was to get them. But still another lad stepped in between him and
his property. The telltale hair, vividly red, sprouted likewise on
this lad's head, and Joe knew him at once for what he was, another
member of the Simpson clan. He was a younger edition of his brothers,
somewhat less heavily built, with a face covered with a vast quantity
of freckles, which showed plainly under the electric light.
"You don't git them there kites till you git me," he challenged in
a piping little voice. "I 'm 'Reddy' Simpson, an' you ain't licked
the fambly till you 've licked me."
The gang cheered admiringly, and Reddy stripped a tattered jacket
preparatory for the fray.
"Git ready," he said to Joe.
Joe's knuckles were torn, his nose was bleeding, his lip was cut and
swollen, while his shirt had been ripped down from throat to waist.
Further, he was tired, and breathing hard.
"How many more are there of you Simpsons?" he asked. "I 've got to
get home, and if your family 's much larger this thing is liable
to keep on all night."
"I 'm the last an' the best," Reddy replied. "You gits me an' you
gits the kites. Sure."
"All right," Joe sighed. "Come on."
While the youngest of the clan lacked the strength and skill of his
elders, he made up for it by a wildcat manner of fighting that taxed
Joe severely. Time and again it seemed to him that he must give in
to the little whirlwind; but each time he pulled himself together
and went doggedly on. For he felt that he was fighting for principle,
as his forefathers had fought for principle; also, it seemed to him that
the honor of the Hill was at stake, and that he, as its representative,
could do nothing less than his very best.
So he held on and managed to endure his opponent's swift and continuous
rushes till that young and less experienced person at last wore himself
out with his own exertions, and from the ground confessed that, for the
first time in its history, the "Simpson fambly was beat."Previous chapter:Next chapter The Cruise of the Dazzler, by Jack London. FOREWORD. CONTENTS PART I CHAPTER I, BROTHER AND SISTER. CHAPTER II, "THE DRACONIAN REFORMS". CHAPTER III, "BRICK," "SORREL-TOP," AND "REDDY". CHAPTER IV, THE BITER BITTEN. CHAPTER V, HOME AGAIN. CHAPTER VI, EXAMINATION DAY. CHAPTER VII, FATHER AND SON. PART II, CHAPTER VIII, 'FRISCO KID AND THE NEW BOY. CHAPTER IX, ABOARD THE DAZZLER. CHAPTER X, WITH THE BAY PIRATES. CHAPTER XI, CAPTAIN AND CREW. CHAPTER XII, JOE TRIES TO TAKE FRENCH LEAVE. CHAPTER XIII, BEFRIENDING EACH OTHER. CHAPTER XIV, AMONG THE OYSTER-BEDS. CHAPTER XV, GOOD SAILORS IN A WILD ANCHORAGE. CHAPTER XVI, 'FRISCO KID'S DITTY-BOX. CHAPTER XVII, 'FRISCO KID TELLS HIS STORY. CHAPTER XVIII, A NEW RESPONSIBILITY FOR JOE. CHAPTER XIX, THE BOYS PLAN AN ESCAPE. CHAPTER XX, PERILOUS HOURS. CHAPTER XXI, JOE AND HIS FATHER. Book list. |
(Thursday, 18 April, 2024.)