The Valley of the Moon. Джек Лондон
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well make up your mind and go to workin' in my home instead of the laundry. Why, it's a snap. There wouldn't be much to do. I make good money, an' you wouldn't want for anything. You know, I just washed up from work an' skinned over here to tell it to you once more, so you wouldn't forget. I ain't ate yet, an' that shows how much I think of you.”
“You'd better go and eat then,” she advised, though she knew the futility of attempting to get rid of him.
She scarcely heard what he said. It had come upon her suddenly that she was very tired and very small and very weak alongside this colossus of a man. Would he dog her always? she asked despairingly, and seemed to glimpse a vision of all her future life stretched out before her, with always the form and face of the burly blacksmith pursuing her.
“Come on, kid, an' kick in,” he continued. “It's the good old summer time, an' that's the time to get married.”
“But I'm not going to marry you,” she protested. “I've told you a thousand times already.”
“Aw, forget it. You want to get them ideas out of your think-box. Of course, you're goin' to marry me. It's a pipe. An' I'll tell you another pipe. You an' me's goin' acrost to Frisco Friday night. There's goin' to be big doin's with the Horseshoers.”
“Only I'm not,” she contradicted.
“Oh, yes you are,” he asserted with absolute assurance. “We'll catch the last boat back, an' you'll have one fine time. An' I'll put you next to some of the good dancers. Oh, I ain't a pincher, an' I know you like dancin'.”
“But I tell you I can't,” she reiterated.
He shot a glance of suspicion at her from under the black thatch of brows that met above his nose and were as one brow.
“Why can't you?”
“A date,” she said.
“Who's the bloke?”
“None of your business, Charley Long. I've got a date, that's all.”
“I'll make it my business. Remember that lah-de-dah bookkeeper rummy? Well, just keep on rememberin' him an' what he got.”
“I wish you'd leave me alone,” she pleaded resentfully. “Can't you be kind just for once?”
The blacksmith laughed unpleasantly.
“If any rummy thinks he can butt in on you an' me, he'll learn different, an' I'm the little boy that'll learn 'm.—Friday night, eh? Where?”
“I won't tell you.”
“Where?” he repeated.
Her lips were drawn in tight silence, and in her cheeks were little angry spots of blood.
“Huh!—As if I couldn't guess! Germania Hall. Well, I'll be there, an' I'll take you home afterward. D'ye get that? An' you'd better tell the rummy to beat it unless you want to see'm get his face hurt.”
Saxon, hurt as a prideful woman can be hurt by cavalier treatment, was tempted to cry out the name and prowess of her new-found protector. And then came fear. This was a big man, and Billy was only a boy. That was the way he affected her. She remembered her first impression of his hands and glanced quickly at the hands of the man beside her. They seemed twice as large as Billy's, and the mats of hair seemed to advertise a terrible strength. No, Billy could not fight this big brute. He must not. And then to Saxon came a wicked little hope that by the mysterious and unthinkable ability that prizefighters possessed, Billy might be able to whip this bully and rid her of him. With the next glance doubt came again, for her eye dwelt on the blacksmith's broad shoulders, the cloth of the coat muscle-wrinkled and the sleeves bulging above the biceps.
“If you lay a hand on anybody I'm going with again—” she began.
“Why, they'll get hurt, of course,” Long grinned. “And they'll deserve it, too. Any rummy that comes between a fellow an' his girl ought to get hurt.”
“But I'm not your girl, and all your saying so doesn't make it so.”
“That's right, get mad,” he approved. “I like you for that, too. You've got spunk an' fight. I like to see it. It's what a man needs in his wife—and not these fat cows of women. They're the dead ones. Now you're a live one, all wool, a yard long and a yard wide.”
She stopped before the house and put her hand on the gate.
“Good-bye,” she said. “I'm going in.”
“Come on out afterward for a run to Idora Park,” he suggested.
“No, I'm not feeling good, and I'm going straight to bed as soon as I eat supper.”
“Huh!” he sneered. “Gettin' in shape for the fling to-morrow night, eh?”
With an impatient movement she opened the gate and stepped inside.
“I've given it to you straight,” he went on. “If you don't go with me to-morrow night somebody'll get hurt.”
“I hope it will be you,” she cried vindictively.
He laughed as he threw his head back, stretched his big chest, and half-lifted his heavy arms. The action reminded her disgustingly of a great ape she had once seen in a circus.
“Well, good-bye,” he said. “See you to-morrow night at Germania Hall.”
“I haven't told you it was Germania Hall.”
“And you haven't told me it wasn't. All the same, I'll be there. And I'll take you home, too. Be sure an' keep plenty of round dances open fer me. That's right. Get mad. It makes you look fine.”
CHAPTER VIII
The music stopped at the end of the waltz, leaving Billy and Saxon at the big entrance doorway of the ballroom. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, and they were promenading on to find seats, when Charley Long, evidently just arrived, thrust his way in front of them.
“So you're the buttinsky, eh?” he demanded, his face malignant with passion and menace.
“Who?—me?” Billy queried gently. “Some mistake, sport. I never butt in.”
“You're goin' to get your head beaten off if you don't make yourself scarce pretty lively.”
“I wouldn't want that to happen for the world,” Billy drawled. “Come on, Saxon. This neighborhood's unhealthy for us.”
He started to go on with her, but Long thrust in front again.
“You're too fresh to keep, young fellow,” he snarled. “You need saltin' down. D'ye get me?”
Billy scratched his head, on his face exaggerated puzzlement.
“No, I don't get you,” he said. “Now just what was it you said?”
But the big blacksmith turned contemptuously away from him to Saxon.
“Come here, you. Let's see your program.”
“Do you want to dance with him?” Billy asked.
She shook her head.
“Sorry, sport, nothin' doin',” Billy said, again making to start on.
For the third time the blacksmith blocked the way.
“Get off your foot,” said Billy. “You're standin' on it.”
Long all but sprang upon him, his hands clenched, one arm just starting back for the punch while at the same instant shoulders and chest were coming forward. But he restrained himself at sight of Billy's unstartled body and cold and cloudy