He lost patience with the spectacle. When they were feeling good, they
shouted, they scuffled, they sang songs, they romped about the place like
cattle, and they generally wound up with a pillow fight, in which they
banged each other over the head, and threw the pillows in all directions,
and every now and then he got a buffet himself; and they were always
inviting him to join in. They called him “Johnny Bull,” and invited him
with excessive familiarity to take a hand. At first he had endured all
this with good nature, but latterly he had shown by his manner that it
was distinctly distasteful to him, and very soon he saw a change in the
manner of these young people toward him. They were souring on him as
they would have expressed it in their language. He had never been what
might be called popular. That was hardly the phrase for it; he had
merely been liked, but now dislike for him was growing. His case was not
helped by the fact that he was out of luck, couldn’t get work, didn’t
belong to a union, and couldn’t gain admission to one: He got a good many
slights of that small ill-defined sort that you can’t quite put your
finger on, and it was manifest that there was only one thing which
protected him from open insult, and that was his muscle. These young
people had seen him exercising, mornings, after his cold sponge bath,
and they had perceived by his performance and the build of his body,
that he was athletic, and also versed in boxing. He felt pretty naked
now, recognizing that he was shorn of all respect except respect for his
fists. One night when he entered his room he found about a dozen of the
young fellows there carrying on a very lively conversation punctuated
with horse-laughter. The talking ceased instantly, and the frank affront
of a dead silence followed. He said,
“Good evening gentlemen,” and sat down.
There was no response. He flushed to the temples but forced himself to
maintain silence. He sat there in this uncomfortable stillness some
time, then got up and went out.
The moment he had disappeared he heard a prodigious shout of laughter
break forth. He saw that their plain purpose had been to insult him.
He ascended to the flat roof, hoping to be able to cool down his spirit
there and get back his tranquility. He found the young tinner up there,
alone and brooding, and entered into conversation with him. They were
pretty fairly matched, now, in unpopularity and general ill-luck and
misery, and they had no trouble in meeting upon this common ground with
advantage and something of comfort to both. But Tracy’s movements had
been watched, and in a few minutes the tormentors came straggling one
after another to the roof, where they began to stroll up and down in an
apparently purposeless way. But presently they fell to dropping remarks
that were evidently aimed at Tracy, and some of them at the tinner.
The ringleader of this little mob was a short-haired bully and amateur
prize-fighter named Allen, who was accustomed to lording it over the
upper floor, and had more than once shown a disposition to make trouble
with Tracy. Now there was an occasional cat-call, and hootings, and
whistlings, and finally the diversion of an exchange of connected remarks
was introduced:
“How many does it take to make a pair?”
“Well, two generally makes a pair, but sometimes there ain’t stuff enough
in them to make a whole pair.” General laugh.
“What were you saying about the English a while ago?”
“Oh, nothing, the English are all right, only–I–” What was it you said
about them?”
“Oh, I only said they swallow well.”
“Swallow better than other people?”
“Oh, yes, the English swallow a good deal better than other people.”
“What is it they swallow best?”
“Oh, insults.” Another general laugh.
“Pretty hard to make ’em fight, ain’t it?”
“No, taint hard to make ’em fight.”
“Ain’t it, really?”
“No, taint hard. It’s impossible.” Another laugh.
“This one’s kind of spiritless, that’s certain.”
“Couldn’t be the other way–in his case.”