Studs Lonigan (30 page)

Frank's eyebrows rose, and he glanced at the two boys. He thought of other years, back in Bavaria, his fatherland. And friends and cousins, and the children of friends and cousins, boys of fifteen and sixteen like these, being taken off to war and killed. Why? His own brother, shot with Hindenburg's army on the Russian front! The world was calling them Huns, beasts, brutes, savages. These silly boys had picked it up like parrots, all that awful talk. He tried to work rapidly. He had come to America, haven of peace and liberty, and it, too, was joining the slaughter, fighting for the big capitalists. There was no peace for men, only murder, cruelty, brutality. He was choked with feelings and fears. His own name! His birthplace! His fatherland! He loved it, suffering Bavaria. America would be a war-crazy nation. He told the boys he was very busy, and asked them to return and see him another time. He went to the back of the shop to sit down and try and think and assimilate this terror.

“I want to go,” Red said.

“Me, too,” said Studs, leaning on the fireplug in front of the chain drug store.

Some of the passing people acted as if nothing had happened. Others had their heads buried in extra papers. Groups paused on the corner to discuss the declaration of war. From down the street, newsboys barked:

“EXTRA PAPEE! CONGRESS DECLARES WAR! EXTRY! WAR!”

“Yeah, I want to go,” Studs said reflectively.

“I'm going to try and get in.”

“But you're underweight and under age.”

“I'll say I'm eighteen, and I can maybe put on enough weight by eating bananas and drinking water before I go down to enlist ”

“Say, Red, that's an idea.”

“What you say? We'll both join the marines?”

“Maybe we'll get all the guys. We'll have a company from Fifty-eighth Street,” Studs said.

“It'd be good if we all could become aviators, and have our own squadron,” Red suggested.

“We'll have a swell time. And we'll bring Kenny Kilarney along, too.”

“Say, he'll be a one-man circus in the war. . . . But did you hear, Kenny's got a job?”

“No kiddin'.”

“Sure, he's deliverin' orders for Ortenstein and Vauss' drug store down on Garfield Boulevard. I wouldn't believe it myself if I didn't see him there.”

“If he goes to war, he'll probably pull off some stunt like capturing all the rats in our trenches and sending them over to the Huns. That'll be the way we'll win the war,” said Studs, laughing.

“And I hear the hustlers are yum-yum in France, too,” Red said.

“We won't do nothin' atall with those French chickens,” Studs bragged lasciviously.

“If we save civilization and France, I think we'll have a right to.”

“You know, I got to laugh, just thinkin' of what a guy like Kenny wouldn't pull in the war. He'd probably go over and cop all the German soup-kitchens, or he might nab Berlin from right under the Kaiser's nose, without the Germans knowing it was gone.”

They talked of how they would come home in glory and victory, marching down Michigan Boulevard with their medals and souvenirs. And Kenny Kilarney would probably have the Kaiser's mustache, iron helmet and his iron cross, and he'd hold them up, shouting RAGO-LIRON, as he marched out of step.

Kenny happened along, carrying a bottle of seltzer water for delivery, and singing,
Reuben, Reuben, I Been Thinking.
They told him about enlisting. He looked at them in that goofy surprised way of his, waved his arms, and sang,
I Didn't Raise My Boy To Be A Soldier
. It was so funny they had to laugh, because Kenny was a funny guy. They said he ought to go into vaudeville. He said that, all kidding aside, the idea was jake with him. He showed them how he would jam a bayonet up the Clown Quince's.

“Hey, there's that Jew punk, Stein. His old man speaks German. I'll bet he's a German spy,” Red said.

Studs grabbed Stein, a neatly dressed, twelve-or-thirteen-year-old, four-eyed sissy. Bawling like a mama's cry baby, Stein asked what he had done. Kenny squirted seltzer water in his face. Stein shrieked to be let alone. Kenny appointed himself judge for a court martial and told them to hold the prisoner until he came back. He dashed away. While they waited, they tortured the kid with questions. Kenny quickly returned with a small American flag which he'd copped from the nearby five-and-dime store. Stein was sentenced to kneel down and kiss the flag. He demurred, but rough handling changed his mind. He knelt down and pressed his lips towards the flag which had been placed on the sidewalk. He was hurtled forwards by three swift kicks in the tocus. He was still bawling when Kenny grabbed his feet, and Studs and Red nabbed him under the arms. They gave him the royal bumps, slamming his can against the sidewalk. A stranger told them to let the kid alone. Kenny said that the kid's father was a German and that he had just yelled “Down with Wilson” and “Hoch der Kaiser.”

MacNamara, the pot-bellied cop, came along, twirling his club. He intruded to halt the punishment. They told him Stein had spit on the flag. Stein, stuttering and tearful, denied the accusation. MacNamara asked him his name. Stein replied meekly. The cop said you could expect anything from one with a name like that, kicked his tail, and told him to get home. He told the guys that they'd done right, but the next time to go back in the alley where they wouldn't cause such a commotion. He flatfooted along twirling his club.

Kenny turned his cap around backwards and sang:

It was funny. Red pointed at the empty seltzer bottle on the sidewalk, and asked Kenny wouldn't he get canned on account of what he did with it. Kenny said no because he'd quit. He struck a Napoleonic attitude, and said:

“On to Berlin!”

They shook on it.

After he became a hero, and everybody knew of him, the story of the stunt they were pulling would be remembered and they would all be telling it. . . . Well, he would become a hero. . . . He would!

He casually leaned against a girder in the alley in back of the Fifty-eighth Street elevated station, cigarette drooping from the comer of his mouth, his cap set back on his poll, a mop of darkish blond hair showing.

“I wish Kilarney would shake a leg, wherever he is,” Studs Lonigan said, as if he were not excited, and all this that was happening was just ordinary and everyday.

“He'll cop a bike, all right. That boy is a past master,” Red said.

“Yeah,” said Studs, secretly envying Kenny Kilarney's talents.

Studs itched to walk around a bit and do something—anything. Waiting like this got him. But he couldn't let Red see he was nervous or Red might think he was yellow.

They heard whooping down the alley. They looked and saw Kenny on a bike, coming towards them like a bat out of Hell. He clamped the bicycle brake, and leaped off. He was breathless and he laughed.

“How do you like it?” he asked, smiling goofily.

They examined the bike, a new one, with blue bars and mudguard, and a bushel basket tied in back of the seat.

“Jesus Christ!” Studs exclaimed admiringly.

“Where'd you get it?” asked Red, also with admiration.

“Off a back porch at Fifty-sixth and Prairie,” Kenny proudly said.

“That near? Maybe we better get away from here. Somebody might be following you,” said Studs.

“Hell, no! I stopped in the alley right near there and tied this bushel basket on,” Kenny said.

“Well, now let's get going. We got lots to do today,” said Studs, nervous.

“You guys got any ideas on how we'll pull the trick off?” asked Red.

“Leave that to Uncle Kilarney,” said Kenny confidently.

“Why? We ought to help,” said Red.

“If you leave it to me, it'll be pie. I got the bike. All I got to do is to find a banana peddler, and wait till he sells something and leaves his cart. Then, I'll just fill the basket and blow. If you guys come along, it'll be easier to catch you because you'll be on foot.”

“But listen, Kenny! . . .”

“Never mind, Red. You guys meet me at Sixtieth and Prairie. Take a little time getting there, and wait. I won't be long. It's just a matter of finding a Guinea peddling bananas.”

He shot off. They shrugged their shoulders, and walked slowly down towards the meeting-place.

“We won't be seein' much of this burg for a
long time,”
said Red.

“I guess not,” said Studs, melancholy at the thought of leaving. Did Red feel the same way? He didn't like to ask because he'd never had a friend he could feel sure of in talking about things like that. Everybody might feel that he was soft and yellow. But, gee, he was leaving the burg, and everything. He was game. He wasn't backing down. But he did feel a little, well, sad at the idea of blowing.

“Think your old man will put in a squawk when he finds out?” asked Red.

“Gee, I wonder. I'm afraid he might.”

“I don't know about mine. I don't think he will, but I ain't positive.”

“If mine does, I'll just raise all holy hell with him,” Studs said.

“I guess the best thing to do is not to tell them. We'll just blow, and then, when we're sure they can't crab our act, we'll let them know. Anyway, Kenny's old lady will probably just say good riddance. He won't have any trouble,” said Red.

Studs wished he had parents like Kenny's old lady. He seemed to do anything he wanted to without ever having any trouble about it at home.

“Say, Studs, what's happened about school?”

“I won't have to worry about it any more now.”

“I know, but has your old man found out?”

“No! But if he does, Jesus! He'll throw cat-fits all over the house. I haven't gone in months, and last winter I got sixty bucks from him for tuition and books and blew it in,” said Studs, laughing with a pride of achievement.

“He isn't wisened up then?” said Red.

“Not yet.”

“Got any more cigarettes?” asked Red.

Studs shook his head. Red sniped a butt from the street.

“Too bad we can't get more of the guys to go,” Studs said.

“Aw, they're yellow! They all said they would, and where are they? Tommy Doyle, today of all days, giving us that crap that he has to help his old man. Say, that bastard hasn't helped his old man or old woman do anything since he was an infant. That crap!”

“Yes,” said Studs, thrilling with a feeling of his superior courage.

“And Weary Reilley, the tough guy, saying they can keep their war,” said Red.

“His name ought to be Schultz or Hoffman, the way he talks,” said Studs.

“Well, let 'em. We'll do our duty, and we'll have our fun, too. With Kenny around we'll have a hell of a time,” said Red.

“And if we do get killed, it'll be for our flag, and you know, a soldier dying for his country don't have to worry about going to Hell. It's like a martyr's death,” said Studs.

“We won't get killed. We'll just kill the Germans,” said Red.

“What'll we join?” asked Studs.

“I'm all for joining the marines,” said Red.

“Me too, the devil dogs,” said Studs.

“There's where that screwy big elephant Jeff lives,” said Red, pointing to a three-story apartment building next to a vacant lot between Fifty-ninth and Sixtieth on Prairie Avenue.

“The punks all over the neighborhood are digging trenches,” said Studs, pointing at trenches which had been dug in the vacant lot.

“It'll be nice coming around on leave in devil-dog uniforms before we go across,” said Red.

“Yeah,” said Studs, thinking of how he would go to mass in his uniform, receive everybody's congratulations, even be seen by Lucy. And he'd go back and see Battling Bertha too.

“We'll be among the first from the neighborhood to go. Lee Cole was the first. But that'll be something, because after all, we're younger, and not even expected to fight,” said Red.

“Yeah,” said Studs, a sense of martyrdom and nobility plunging extravagantly within him.

“I'm kind of anxious to get the thing settled, and sign on the dotted line,” said Red.

“Me too,” said Studs.

They sat on a fence at Sixtieth and Prairie Avenue in front of the home where that punk from St. Patrick's, Morrie Regan, lived.

“Say, maybe we can get in just as we are,” said Red.

“We hadn't better take any chances. I only weigh a hundred and ten pounds, and Kenny's lighter. How about you?”

“I'm about one nine,” said Red.

“We better eat the bananas,” said Studs.

“You're pretty anxious,” said Red, as Studs got up and walked in front of him.

“Kind of,” said Studs, running his words together.

“I can understand it.”

“Suppose he gets caught?” said Studs, glancing north.

“Kenny never gets caught.”

“Hello, fellows. . . . Say, got a fag?” asked Three Star Hennessey.

“Go on home and wash your face,” Red said.

“Don't be a heel,” said Hennessey.

“Why don't you go to school? The truant officer will be nabbing you, and your old man will kick your ears off,” said Studs, with the superior sneer warranted by age and size.

“Say, what you guys doing today?” Hennessey asked.

“Nothin',” said Red with obvious mysteriousness, and winked at Studs.

“Hey, punk, blow!” Studs commanded.