the babe, tommie, died. he went away in a white, insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that the girl, maggie, had stolen from an italian.
she and jimmie lived.
the inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an early age. he became a young man of leather. he lived some red years without laboring. during that time his sneer became chronic. he studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than he thought he had reason to believe it. he never conceived a respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it had smashed.
he clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous." while they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he calculated they stood with the lord. many of the sinners were impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. they were waiting for soup-tickets.
a reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and his hearers.
"you are damned," said the preacher. and the reader of sounds might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "where's our soup?"
jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of english gentlemen. when they grew thirsty and went out their minds confused the speaker with christ.
momentarily, jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless altitude where grew fruit. his companion said that if he should ever meet god he would ask for a million dollars and a bottle of beer.
jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing of pretty women. he menaced mankind at the intersections of streets.
on the corners he was in life and of life. the world was going on and he was there to perceive it.
he maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed men. to him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good coats covered faint hearts. he and his order were kings, to a certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at.
above all things he despised obvious christians and ciphers with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. he considered himself above both of these classes. he was afraid of neither the devil nor the leader of society.
when he had a dollar in his pocket his satisfaction with existence was the greatest thing in the world. so, eventually, he felt obliged to work. his father died and his mother's years were divided up into periods of thirty days.
he became a truck driver. he was given the charge of a painstaking pair of horses and a large rattling truck. he invaded the turmoil and tumble of the down-town streets and learned to breathe maledictory defiance at the police who occasionally used to climb up, drag him from his perch and beat him.
in the lower part of the city he daily involved himself in hideous tangles. if he and his team chanced to be in the rear he preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath the noses of his champing horses. he smoked his pipe calmly for he knew that his pay was marching on.
if in the front and the key-truck of chaos, he entered terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and fro among the drivers on their high seats, and sometimes roared oaths and violently got himself arrested.
after a time his sneer grew so that it turned its glare upon all things. he became so sharp that he believed in nothing. to him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the rest of the world was composed, for the most part, of despicable creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with whom, in defense, he was obliged to quarrel on all possible occasions. he himself occupied a down-trodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation.
the most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were, to his mind, rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. at first his tongue strove with these beings, but he eventually was superior. he became immured like an african cow. in him grew a majestic contempt for those strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs.
he fell into the habit, when starting on a long journey, of fixing his eye on a high and distant object, commanding his horses to begin, and then going into a sort of a trance of observation. multitudes of drivers might howl in his rear, and passengers might load him with opprobrium, he would not awaken until some blue policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat the soft noses of the responsible horses.
when he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only men in the city who had no rights. when driving about, he felt that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur in the streets, and was the common prey of all energetic officials. in revenge, he resolved never to move out of the way of anything, until formidable circumstances, or a much larger man than himself forced him to it.
foot-passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane disregard for their legs and his convenience. he could not conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. their madness smote him with eternal amazement. he was continually storming at them from his throne. he sat aloft and denounced their frantic leaps, plunges, dives and straddles.
when they would thrust at, or parry, the noses of his champing horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet, disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools, for he himself could perceive that providence had caused it clearly to be written, that he and his team had the unalienable right to stand in the proper path of the sun chariot, and if they so minded, obstruct its mission or take a wheel off.
and, perhaps, if the god-driver had an ungovernable desire to step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the right of way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles.
it is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry boat. yet he achieved a respect for a fire engine. as one charged toward his truck, he would drive fearfully upon a sidewalk, threatening untold people with annihilation. when an engine would strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments, as a blow annihilates a cake of ice, jimmie's team could usually be observed high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk. the fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate muddle of heavy vehicles at which the police had been swearing for the half of an hour.
a fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing that he loved with a distant dog-like devotion. they had been known to overturn street-cars. those leaping horses, striking sparks from the cobbles in their forward lunge, were creatures to be ineffably admired. the clang of the gong pierced his breast like a noise of remembered war.
when jimmie was a little boy, he began to be arrested. before he reached a great age, he had a fair record.
he developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck and fight with other drivers. he had been in quite a number of miscellaneous fights, and in some general barroom rows that had become known to the police. once he had been arrested for assaulting a chinaman. two women in different parts of the city, and entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals, into wailings about marriage and support and infants.
nevertheless, he had, on a certain star-lit evening, said wonderingly and quite reverently: "deh moon looks like hell, don't it?"
