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|The Red One||Jack London|
|Page 3 of 19||
Then both sat licking their lips, guiltily embarrassed, while the unblinking eyes of the terrible one bored into them, now into one, now into another, and then down at the rock-chunks of their preparedness.
"Huh!" sneered the terrible one, with such dreadfulness of menace as to cause Whiskers and Fatty involuntarily to close their hands down on their cave-man's weapons.
"Huh!" the other repeated, reaching his one talon into his side coat pocket with swift definiteness. "A hell of a chance you two cheap bums 'd have with me."
The talon emerged, clutching ready for action a six-pound iron quoit.
"We ain't lookin' for trouble, Slim," Fatty quavered.
"Who in hell are you to call me 'Slim'?" came the snarling answer.
"Me? I'm just Fatty, an' seein' 's I never seen you before - "
"An' I suppose that's Whiskers, there, with the gay an' festive lamp tan-going into his eyebrow an' the God-forgive-us nose joy-riding all over his mug?"
"It'll do, it'll do," Whiskers muttered uncomfortably. "One monica's as good as another, I find, at my time of life. And everybody hands it out to me anyway. And I need an umbrella when it rains to keep from getting drowned, an' all the rest of it."
"I ain't used to company - don't like it," Slim growled. "So if you guys want to stick around, mind your step, that's all, mind your step."
He fished from his pocket a cigar stump, self-evidently shot from the gutter, and prepared to put it in his mouth to chew. Then he changed his mind, glared at his companions savagely, and unrolled his bundle. Appeared in his hand a druggist's bottle of alki.
"Well," he snarled, "I suppose I gotta give you cheap skates a drink when I ain't got more'n enough for a good petrification for myself."
Almost a softening flicker of light was imminent in his withered face as he beheld the others proudly lift their hats and exhibit their own supplies.
"Here's some water for the mixin's," Whiskers said, proffering his tomato-can of river slush. "Stockyards just above," he added apologetically. "But they say - "
"Huh!" Slim snapped short, mixing the drink. "I've drunk worse'n stockyards in my time."
Yet when all was ready, cans of alki in their solitary hands, the three things that had once been men hesitated, as if of old habit, and next betrayed shame as if at self-exposure.
Whiskers was the first to brazen it.
"I've sat in at many a finer drinking," he bragged.
"With the pewter," Slim sneered.
"With the silver," Whiskers corrected.
Slim turned a scorching eye-interrogation on Fatty.
"Beneath the salt," said Slim.
"Above it," came Fatty's correction. "I was born above it, and I've never travelled second class. First or steerage, but no intermediate in mine."
"Yourself?" Whiskers queried of Slim.
"In broken glass to the Queen, God bless her," Slim answered, solemnly, without snarl or sneer.
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