 14 In a hilarious hall there are twenty-eight tables and twenty-eight women and a crowd of smoking men. Valent noise was made on a stage at the end of the hall by an orchestra composed of men who looked as if they had just happened in. Sword-waiters ran to and fro, swooping down like hawks on the unwary, in the throng. Cladding along the owls with trays covered with glasses, stumbling over women's skirt, and charging two prizes for everything but beer, all with a swiftness that blurred the view of the coconut palms and dusty monstrosities painted upon the walls of the room. A bouncer, with an immense load of business upon his hands, plunged about in the crowd, dragging bashful strangers to prominent chairs, ordering waiters here and there, and quarreling furiously with men who wanted to sing with the orchestra. The usual smoke cloud was present, but so dense that heads and arms seemed entangled in it. The rumble of conversation was replaced by a roar. Plenty of oath heaved through the air. The room rang with the shrill voices of women bubbling over with drink or laughter. The chief element in the music of the orchestra was speed. The musicians played in intent fury. A woman was singing and smelling upon the stage, but no one took notice of her. The rate at which the piano, cornet, and violins were going seemed to impart wildness to the half-drunken crowd. Big glasses were empty at a gulp, and conversation became a rapid chatter. The smoke ebbed and swirled like shadowy river harrying towards some unseen falls. Pete and Maggie entered the hall and took chairs at a table near the door. The woman who was seated there made an attempt to occupy Pete's attention, and, failing, went away. Three weeks had passed since the girl had left home. The air of spangled-like dependence had been magnified and showed a direct effect in the particular off-handedness and ease of Pete's ways toward her. She followed Pete's eyes with hers, anticipating with smiles gracious looks from him. A woman of brilliance and audacity, accompanied by a mere boy, came into the place and took seats near them. At once, Peter sprang to his feet, his face beaming with glad surprise. By God, there's Nella, he cried. He went over to the table and held out an eager hand to the woman. Why, hello, Peter, my boy, and how are you? She said, giving him her fingers. Maggie took instant note of the woman. She perceived that her black dress fitted her to perfection. Her linen collared and cuffs were spotless. Tan gloves were stretched over her well-shaped hands, a hat of prevailing fashion perched jauntedly upon her dark hair. She wore no jewelry and was painted with no apparent paint. She looked clear-eyed through the stairs of the men. And call your lady friend over, she said causally to Pete. At his beckoning, Maggie came and sat between Pete and the mere boy. I thought you were going away for good, began Peter once. When did you get back? How about them buffalo business turned out? The woman shrugged her shoulders. Well, he didn't have as many stamps as he tried to make out. So I shook him off. That's all. Well, I'm glad to see he's back in the city, said Pete with awkward gallantry. He and the woman entered into a long conversation, exchanging reminisces of days together. Maggie sat still, unable to formulate an intelligent sentence upon the conversation and painfully aware of it. She saw Pete's eyes sparkle as he gazed upon the handsome stranger. He listened smilingly to all she said. The woman was familiar with all his affairs, asked him about mutual friends, and knew the amount of the salary. She paid no attention to Maggie, looking toward her once or twice and apparently seeing the wall beyond. The mere boy was sulky. In the beginning he had welcomed with acclamations the additions. Let's all have a drink. What do you take, Nell? And you, miss, what's your name? Have a drink, mister. You know what I mean? He had shown a sprightly desire to do the talking for the company and tell all about his family. In a loud voice he declined on various topics. He assumed a patronizing air toward Pete. As Maggie was silent, he paid no attention to her. He made a great show of lavishing wealth upon the woman of brilliance and audacity. Do keep still, Freddie. You give her like an ape, dear, said the woman to him. She turned away and devoted her attention to Pete. Well, have many a good time together again, eh? Sure, Mike, said Pete, enthusiastic at once. Say, whispered she, leaning forward. Let's go over to Billy's and have a hell of a time. Well, it's this way, see, said Pete. I got this lady from him. Oh, to help with her, argued the woman. Pete appeared disturbed. All right, she said, nodding her head at him. All right for you. This is the next time you ask me to go anywhere as with you. Pete squirmed. Say, he said beseechingly. Come while Mia meant, and I'll tell you why. The woman waved her hand. Oh, that's all right. You didn't explain, you know. You wouldn't come merely because you wouldn't come. That's all there is of it. To Pete's visible distress, she turned to the Mia boy, bringing him speedily from a terrific rage. He had been debating whether it would be the part of a man to pick a quarrel with Pete, or would he be justified in striking him savagely with his beer glass without warning. But he recovered himself when the woman turned to renew her smileings. He beamed upon her with an expression that was somewhat tipsy and inexpressibly tender. Say, check that Bowery J. requested he in a loud whisper. Freddie, you are so drawn, she replied. Pete reached forward and touched the woman on the arm. Come out a minute while I tell you why I can't go with you. You do me dirt now. I never taught you do me dirt now. Come on, will you? He spoke in tones and injury. Why? I don't see why I should be interested in your explanations. Said the woman with a coldness that seemed to reduce Pete to a pulp. His eyes pleaded with her. Come out a minute while I tell you. The woman nodded slightly and magging in the Mia boy. Excuse me. The Mia boy interrupted his loving smile and turned a shriveling glare upon Pete. His boy's countenance flushed and he spoke in a whine to the woman. Oh, I say, Nellie, this isn't a square deer, you know. You aren't going to leave me and go off with that duffer, are you? I should think. Why, you dear boy, of course I'm not, cried the woman affectionately. She bend it over and whispered in his ear. He smiled again and settled in his chair as if resolved to wait patiently. As the woman walked down between the rows of tables, Pete was at her shoulder talking earnestly, apparently in explanation. The woman waved her hands with study heirs of indifference. The door swung behind them, leaving Maggie and the Mia boy seated at the table. Maggie was dazed. She could dimly perceive that something stupendous had happened. She wondered why Pete saw fit to remistrate with the woman, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes. She thought she noted an air of submission about her linoin Pete. She was astounded. The Mia boy occupied himself with cocktails and a cigar. He was tranquilly silent for half an hour. Then he bestirred himself and spoke. Well, he said, Zion, I knew this was the way it would be. There was another stillness. The Mia boy seemed to be musing. She was pulling me leg. That's the whole amount of it, he said suddenly. It's a blooming shame the way that girl does. Why, I spent over two dollars in drinks tonight, and she goes on with that plug ugly who looks as if he's been hit in the face with a corn die. I call it rocky treatment for a fella like me. Here, waiter, bring me a cocktail and make a damn strong. Maggie made no reply. She was watching the doors. It's a mean piece of business, complaining to me a boy. He explained to her how amazing it was that anybody should treat him in such a manner. But I'll get square with her. You bet. She won't get far ahead of yours truly, you know, he added winking. I'll tell her planning that it was blooming mean business. And she won't come it over me with any of her now freddy dears. She thinks my name was freddy, you know, but of course it ain't. I always tell these people some name like that because if they got into your right name, they might use it sometime. Understand? Oh, they don't fool me much. Maggie was paying no attention. Being a ten upon the doors, the mere boy relapsed into a period of bloom, doing which he exterminated a number of cocktails with a determined air as if reliant defiantly to fate. He occasionally broke forth into synthesis composed of infectives joined together in a long string. The girl was still staring at the doors. After the time, the mere boy began to see cobwebs just in front of his nose. He spurred himself into being agreeable and insist upon her having a shawly roost and a glass of beer. There's gone, he remarked. They's gone. He looked at her through the smoke. Well, she ain't little girl. We might as well make best of it. We ain't such bad looking girl, you know? Not that bad. Can't come up to Nell though. No, can't do it. Well, I should say not. Nell fine looking girl. F-I-N-E fine. You look down bad alongside her but by yourself ain't so bad. Have you do it anyhow? Nell gone. Only you left. Not bad though. Maggie stood up. I'm going home, she said. Then the mere boy started. Eh, what? Home. He cried, struck with amazement. I beg pardon. Did he say home? I am going home, she repeated. Great God, what a hell of a struck. The man of the mere boy himself stupefied. In a semi-comatose state, he conducted her on board an uptown car. Ostinously paid her fare, leered kindly at her through the rear window, and fell off the steps. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Daisy 55. Chapter 15 of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets. This is a Liberox recording. All Liberox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Liberox.org. Recording by Daisy 55. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane. Chapter 15. A full-on woman went along a lighted avenue. The street was filled with people desperately bound on missions. An endless crowd dotted at the elevator station stairs, and the horse cars were throng with owners of bundles. The pace of the full-on woman was slow. She was apparently searching for someone. She lauded near the doors of saloons, and watched men emerge from them. She scanned futively the faces in the Russian stream of pedestrians. Harry and men bent on catching some boat or train, jostled their elbows, falling to notice her. Their thoughts fixed on distant dinners. The full-on woman had a peculiar face. Her smile was no smile. But when in repose, her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic grin, as if someone had sketched with a crude four fingers indebtable lines about her mouth. Jimmy came strolling up the avenue. The woman encountered him with an aggrieved air. Oh, Jimmy, I've been looking all over for you. She began. Jimmy made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace. Oh, don't bother me, good God, he said, with a savanness of a man whose life has pestered. The woman followed him along the sidewalk and somewhat the man of a supple. But Jimmy, she said, he's told me ye, Jimmy turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand to comfort and peace. Say, for God's sake, had it, don't follow me from one end of the city till the other. Let her wish it. Give me a minute rest, can't she? He makes me tired. All's a-tagging me. See, ain't ye's got no sin? Do ye's want people to get on to me? Go chase yourself for God's sakes. The woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm. But look at here, Jimmy said, oh, good hell. He dotted into the front door of a convenience saloon, and a moment later came out into the shadows that surrounded the side door. On the brilliantly lighted avenue, he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about him like a scout. Jimmy laughed with an air relief and went away. When he arrived home, he found his mother clamoring. Maggie had returned. She stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's wrath. Well, I'm damned, said Jimmy in greeting. His mother tottering about the room, pointing an equivalent forefinger. Look at here, Jimmy, look at here. There's your sister, boy. There's your sister. Look at her, look at her. She screamed and scoffed and laughed at her. The girl stood in the middle of the room. She asked about as if unable to find a place on the floor to put her feet. Below the mother. There she stands. Ain't she pretty? Look at her. Ain't she sweet? The beast. Look at her. Look at her. She lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon his daughter's face. She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of the girl. Oh, she just deceiving. Ain't she ever was, ain't she? She's a mother's party. Darling little, ain't she? Look at her, Jimmy. Come here for God's sake and look at her. The loud and tremendous sneering of the mother brought the deansons of the Rum Alley Tenement to their doors. Women came in at hallways. Children scurry to and fro. What's up? The Johnson's party on the other tear? Na, young Max, come home. The hell you say? Through the open doors, curious eyes stared in at Maggie. Children ventured into the room and uggled her as if they formed the front row at a theater. Woman without bended toward each other and whispered, nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy. A baby overcome of curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, slide her forward and touched her dress cautiously as if investigating a red hot stove. Its mother's voice rang out like a warning triumph. She rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of indignation at the girl. Maggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the door full of eyes expounding like a glib showman at a museum. Her voice rang through the building. There she stands, she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with dramatic finger. There she stands. Look at her. Ain't she a ditty? And she was so good as to come home to her mother. She was. Ain't she a beauty? Ain't she a ditty? For God's sakes, the jeering cries ended in another bust of sheer laughter. The girl seems to awaken. Jimmy, he drew hastily back from her. Well now, you're a hell of a thing, ain't you? He said. His lips curling and scorn, radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands expressed horror of contamination. Maggie turned and went. The crowd at the door fell back precipitately. A baby falling down in front of the door, wretched a scream like a wounded animal from his mother. Another woman sprang forward and picked it up with a shiverous air as if rescuing a human being from an ongoing express train. As the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors, framing more eyes, strangely microscopic and sending broad beams of exquisite light into the darkness of her path. On the second floor, she met the large old woman who possessed the music box. So she cried. Is she back again? Is she? And it kicks you out. Well, come on in and stay with me tonight. They ain't got no more standing. From above came an e-signing babble of tongues over all of which rang the mother's decisive laughter. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Daisy 55 Chapter 16 of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Neil Donnelly. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 16 Pete did not consider that he had ruined Maggie. If he had thought that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the mother and brother who were a pyrotechnic over the affair to be responsible for it. Besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile. What the hell? He felt a trifle entangled. It distressed him. Revelations and scenes might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon who insisted upon respectability of an advanced type. What the hell do they want to raise such a smoke about it for? Demanded he of himself disgusted with the attitude of the family. He saw no necessity for anyone's losing their equilibrium merely because their sister or their daughter had stayed away from home. Searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he came upon the conclusion that Maggie's motives were correct, but that the two others wished to snare him. He felt pursued. The woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious hall showed a disposition to ridicule him. A little pale thing with no spirit, she said. Did you note the expression of her eyes? There was something in them about pumpkin pie and virtue. That is the peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of twitching, isn't it? Dear, dear, my cloud compelling Pete, what are you coming to? Pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the girl. The woman interrupted him laughing. Oh, it's not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man. You needn't draw maps for my benefit. Why should I be concerned about it? But Pete continued with his explanations. If he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones. The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the bar. He was immaculate in a white jacket and apron, and his hair was plastered over his bra with infinite correctness. No customers were in the place. Pete was twisting his napkin to fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself, and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room. With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors. Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips. He saw Maggie walking slowly past. He gave a great start, fearing for the previously mentioned eminent respectability of the place. He threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty. No one was in the room. He went hastily over to the side door, opening it and looking out. He perceived Maggie standing as if undecided on the corner. She was searching the place with her eyes. As she turned her face toward him, Pete beckoned to her hurriedly, intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted. Maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a smile erything her lips. Oh, Pete, she began brightly. The bartender made a violent gesture of impatience. Oh, my God, he cried vehemently. What the hell do you want to hang around here for? Do you want to get me into trouble? He demanded with an air of injury. Astonishment swept over the girl's features. Why, Pete, you just told me. Pete glanced, profound irritation. His countenance reddened with the anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened. Say, yes, makes me tired, see. What the hell do you want to tag her on at me for? You get me into trouble with the old man and they'll be held to pay. If he sees a woman on there, he'll go crazy and I'll lose me job, see. Your brother coming here and raised hell and the old man had to put up for it. And now I'm done, see, I'm done. The girl's eyes stared into his face. Pete, don't you remember— Oh, hell, interrupted Pete, anticipating. The girl seemed to have a struggle with herself. She was apparently bewildered and could not find speech. Finally, she asked in a low voice, but where can I go? The question exasperated Pete beyond the powers of endurance. It was a direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a manner that did not concern him. In his indignation he volunteered information. Oh, go to hell, cried he. He slammed the door furiously and returned with an air of relief to his respectability. Maggie went away. She wandered aimlessly for several blocks. She stopped once and asked aloud a question of herself. Who? A man who was passing near her shoulder humorously took the questioning word as intended for him. Her what? Who? Nobody. I didn't say anything, he laughingly said and continued his way. Soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent aimlessness some man looked at her with calculating eyes. She quickened her step, frightened. As a protection she adopted a demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere. After a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features. She hung her head before she felt their eyes grimly upon her. Suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chased black coat whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his knees. The girl had heard of the grace of God and she decided to approach this man. His beaming chubby face was a picture of benevolence and kind-heartedness. His eyes shone goodwill. But as the girl timidly accosted him he gave a convulsive movement and saved his respectability by a vigorous sidestep. He did not risk it to save a soul. For how is he to know that there was a soul before him that needed saving? Upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars pulled by slipping horses jangled along a prominent side street. A dozen cabs with coat-and-trouted drivers clattered to and fro. Electric lights, worrying softly, shed a blurred radiance. A flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wears glistening with raindrops stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. Two or three theaters emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. Men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. Women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. People, having been comparatively silent for two hours, burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage. The pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. Men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite requests or imperative demand. An endless procession went toward elevated stations. An atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born perhaps of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness. In the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers and attitudes of chronic dejection was scattered among the benches. A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. She threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces. Crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. She hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-eshad feet the drier spots upon the pavements. The restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers. A concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift machine-like music as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening. A tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. He had on evening dress a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. Seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. He stared glassily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, Parisian nor theatrical. He wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air like a sailor with a searchlight. A stout gentleman with pompous and philanthropic whiskers went stolidly by the broad of his back sneering at the girl. A belated man in business clothes and in haste to catch a car bounced against her shoulder. Either, Mary, I beg your pardon. Brace up, old girl. He grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street. The girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. She passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those who were the crowd traveled. A young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. He stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. Come now, old lady, he said. You don't mean to tell me that you size me up for a farmer. A laboring man marched along with bundles under his arms. To her remarks, he replied, It's a fine evening, ain't it? She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands. Not this Eve, some other Eve. A drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. I ain't got no money. Damn bad luck. Ain't got no more money. The girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall factories shut in the street, and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. In front of one of these places, from whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter there stood a man with blotched features. Ah, there, said the girl. I've got a date, said the man. Further on in the darkness, she met a ragged being with shifting bloodshot eyes and grimy hands. What the hell? Tink I'm a millionaire? She went into the blackness of the final block. The shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. These structures seemed to have eyes that looked over her beyond her at other things. Far off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance, streetcar bells jingled with a sound of merriment. When almost to the river, the girl saw a great figure. On going forward, she perceived it to be a huge fat man in torn and greasy garments. His gray hair straggled down over his forehead. His small, bleared eyes sparkling from amidst the great rolls of red fat swept eagerly over the girl's upturned face. He laughed, his brown, disordered teeth gleaming under a gray, grizzled mustache from which beard drops dripped. His whole body gently quivered and shook like that of a dead jellyfish. Chuckling and leering, he followed the girl of the crimson legions. At their feet the river appeared a deathly black hue. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. The varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence. CHAPTER 18 A partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe. I'm good feller, girls, you said convincingly. I'm damn good feller. Anybody treats me right? I always treat them right, see? The women nodded their heads approvingly. To be sure, they cried out in a hearty chorus, You're the kind of a man we like, Pete, you're out of sight. Whatcha gonna buy this time, dear? Anything is once, damn it, said the man in an abandonment of goodwill, his countenance shown with the true spirit of benevolence. He was in the proper mode of missionaries. He would have fraternized with obscure hotentots, and above all he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious. Anything is once, damn it, repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. I'm good feller, girls, and if anybody treats me right, I hear, called he, through an open door to a waiter. Bring, girls, drinks, damn it. What'll you have, girls? Anything is once, damn it. The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves in toxicance for the man who takes too much of them. He nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual and went, damn it, said the man. We're havin' hell of a time. I like you, girls, damned if I don't. You're a right sort, see? He spoke at length and with feeling concerning the excellencies of his assembled friends. Don't try pull a man's leg, but have hell of a time. That's right. That's what to do. Now, if I sought you as tryin' to work me for drinks, wouldn't buy a damn thing, but you're a right sort, damn it. His nose had a treat of feller, and I and I stays by his till I spend a lot of cent. That's right. I'm good feller, and I nose when anybody treats me right. Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discourse to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. He laid stress upon the purity of his motives and all dealings with men in the world, and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. Tears welled slowly from his eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke to them. The once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth. Here, said he, quite magnificently, here's quarter. The waiter kept his hands on his tray. I don't want your money, he said. The other put forth the coin with cheerful insistence. Here, damn it, he cried, take it. Your damn good feller, and I want you, just take it. Come, come now, said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who was forced into giving advice. Put your money in your pocket, you're loaded, and you's only makes a damn fool of yourself. As the latter passed out of the door, the man turned pathetically to the women. You don't know, I'm damn good feller, cried he, dismally. Never you mind, Pete, dear, said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. Never you mind, old boy, we'll stay by you, dear. That's right, cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman's voice. That's right, I'm damn good feller, and when anyone treats me right, I treat them right. Sure, cried the woman, and we're not going back on you, old man. The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action, he would die. Shae, now, damn it, I always treat you square, didn't I? I always been good feller, we is, ain't I, now? Sure you have, Pete, assented the woman. She delivered an aeration, and she said, assented the woman. She delivered an aeration to her companions. Yes, sir, that's a fact. Pete's a square fella, he is. He never goes back on her friend. He's the right kind, and we stay by him, don't we, girls? Sure, they exclaimed. Looking lovingly at him, they raised their glasses and drank his health. Girls, said the man, beseechingly. I always treat you right, didn't I? I'm good feller, ain't I, girls? Sure, again, they chorused. Well, said he, finally. Let's have another drink, then. That's right, hailed a woman. That's right, you're no bloomin' Jay, you spend your money like a man, that's right. Man pounded the table with his quivering fists. Yes, sir, he cried with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. I'm damn good feller, and when anyone treats me right, I always treat... Let's have another drink. He began to beat the wood with his glass. Shey, howled he, growling, suddenly impatient, as the waiter did not then come. The man swilled with wrath. Shey, howled he again. The waiter appeared at the door. Brings drinks, said the man. The waiter disappeared with the orders. Said feller, damn fool, cried the man. Here and sell me, I'm gentleman. Here and stand me and sell. I'm gonna lick him when it comes. No, no, cried the woman, crowding about and trying to subdue him. He's all right. He didn't mean anything, let it go. He's a good feller. Danny and sell me, asked the man, earnestly. No, said they. Of course he didn't. He's all right. Sure he didn't sell me? Demanded the man with deep anxiety in his voice. No, no, we know him. He's a good feller. He didn't mean anything. Well, John, said the man, resolutely. I'm a girl, apologize. When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor. Girl, should you and sell me, I say, damn lie. I apologize. All right, said the waiter. The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody. Now I always treat you squared, and I... You like me don't you, now? I'm a good feller. Sure, said the woman of brilliance and audacity. You know I'm stuck on you, don't you, now? Sure, she repeated carelessly. Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket. And with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman. His nose damages can have all I got, because I'm stuck on you, don't you, now? Damn it, I... I'm stuck on you, don't you, now? By drinks, damn it, we're having hell of a time. When anyone treats me right, damn it, now we're having hell of a time. Shortly he went to sleep, with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest. The woman drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor. The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts. Come on, cried one, staring up angrily. Let's get out of here. The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly shaped pocket. A guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him. She laughed. What a damn fool, she said, and went. The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in a little compartment, obscuring the way out. The smell of oil stifling in its intensity pervaded the air. The wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 19 In a room, a woman sat at a table, eating like a fat monk in a picture. A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered. Well, said he, Maggie's dead. What? said the woman, her mouth filled with bread. Maggie's dead, repeated the man. The hell she is, said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee, she began to weep. I can remember when her two feet was no bigger than your thumb, and she wear'd wusted boots, won't she? Well, what a dat, said the man. I can remember when she wear'd wusted boots, she cried. The neighbours began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman, as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands, the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted. Suddenly the door opened, and a woman in a black gown rushed in without stretched arms. Ah, poor Mary! she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one. Ah, what terrible affliction is this? continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. My poor Mary, how I feel for years! Ah, what a terrible affliction is a disobedient child! Her good motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe. I can remember when she wear'd wusted boots, and her two feet was no bigger than your thumb, and she wear'd wusted boots, Miss Smith. She cried, raising her streaming eyes. Ah, me poor Mary! sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys. Your poor, misguided child is gone now, Mary, and let us hope it's for the best. You'll forgive her now, Mary, won't you, dear, all her disobedience, all her tankless behaviour to her mother, and all her badness. She's gone where her terrible sins will be judged. The woman in black raised her face, and paused. The inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows, and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered into the other room. In a moment she emerged, with a pair of faded baby-shoes held in the hollow of her hand. I can remember when she used to wear'd them, cried she. The women burst anew into cries as if they'd all been stabbed. The mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man. Jimmy boy, go get your sister, go get your sister, and we'll put the boots on her feet. They won't fit her now, you damn fool, said the man. Go get your sister, Jimmy! shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely. The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner, and slowly began to put on his coat. He took his hat, and went out with a dragging, reluctant step. The woman in black came forward, and again besought the mourner. You'll forgive her, Mary. You'll forgive your bad, bad child. Her life was a curse, and her days were black, and you'll forgive your bad girl. She's gone where her sins will be judged. She's gone where her sins will be judged, cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral. The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away, said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams. The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away, responded the others. You'll forgive her, Mary, pleaded the woman in black. The mourner essayed to speak, but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders frantically in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. Finally her voice came, and arose like a scream of pain. Oh yes, I'll forgive her. I'll forgive her. End of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets, by Stephen Crane