ing, and beyond, beyond the elevateds,
“How many times’ll your red cock crow, Pete, befaw y’ gives up? T’ree?”
as in the pit of the west, the last
“Yee! hee! Mary, joikin’—”
smudge of rose, staining the stem of
“Nawthin’ t’ do but climb—”
the trembling, jagged
“Show culluh if yuh god beddeh!”
chalice of the night-taut stone with
“An’ I t’rows de fuck’n’ rivet.”
the lees of day. And his toe crooked into
the dipper as into a stirrup. It
grated, stirred, slid, and—
“Dere’s a star fer yeh! Watch it! Tree Kings I god. Dey came on huzzbeck! Yee! Hee Hee! Mary! Nawthin’ to do but wait fer day light and go home. To a red cock crowin’. Over a statue of. A jerkin’. Cod. Clang! Clang! Oy! Machine! Liberty! Revolt! Redeem!”
Power
Power! Power like a paw, titanic power,
ripped through the earth and slammed
against his body and shackled him
where he stood. Power! Incredible,
barbaric power! A blast, a siren of light
within him, rending, quaking, fusing his
brain and blood to a fountain of flame,
vast rockets in a searing spray! Power!
The hawk of radiance raking him with
talons of fire, battering his skull with
a beak of fire, braying his body with
pinions of intolerable light. And he
writhed without motion in the clutch of
a fatal glory, and his brain swelled
and dilated till it dwarfed the galaxies
in a bubble of refulgence — Recoiled, the
last screaming nerve clawing for survival.
He kicked — once. Terrific rams of dark-
ness collided; out of their shock space
toppled into havoc. A thin scream wobbled
through the spirals of oblivion, fell like
a brand on water, his-s-s-s-s-ed—
“W’at?
“W’ut?
“Va-at?
“Gaw blimey!
“W’atsa da ma’?”
The street paused. Eyes, a myriad of eyes, gay or sunken, rheumy, yellow or clear, slant, blood-shot, hard, boozy or bright swerved from their tasks, their play, from faces, newspapers, dishes, cards, seidels, valves, sewing machines, swerved and converged. While at the foot of Tenth Street, a quaking splendor dissolved the cobbles, the grimy structures, bleary stables, the dump-heap, river and sky into a single cymbal-clash of light. Between the livid jaws of the rail, the dipper twisted and bounced, consumed in roaring radiance, candescent—
“Hey!”
“Jesus!”
“Give a look! Id’s rain—
“Shawt soicit, Mack—”
“Mary, w’at’s goin’—”
“Schloimee, a blitz like—”
“Hey mate!”
On Avenue D, a long burst of flame spurted from underground, growled as if the veil of earth were splitting. People were hurrying now, children scooting past them, screeching. On Avenue C, the lights of the trolley-car waned and wavered. The motorman cursed, feeling the power drain. In the Royal Warehouse, the blinking watchman tugged at the jammed and stubborn window. The shriveled coal-heaver leaned unsteadily from between the swinging door — blinked, squinted in pain, and—
“Holy Mother O’ God! Look! Will yiz!”
“Wot?”
“There’s a guy layin’ there! Burrhnin’!”
“Naw! Where!”
“Gawd damn the winder!”
“It’s on Tent’ Street! Look!”
“O’Toole!”
The street was filled with running men, faces carved and ghostly in the fierce light. They shouted hoarsely. The trolley-car crawled forward. Up above a window slammed open.
“Christ, it’s a kid!”
“Yea!”
“Don’t touch ’im!”
“Who’s got a stick!”
“A stick!”
“A stick, fer Jesus sake!”
“Mike! The shovel! Where’s yer fuck’n’ shov—”
“Back in Call—”
“Oy sis a kind—”
“Get Pete’s crutch! Hey Pete!”
“Aaa! Who touched yer hump, yuh gimpty fu—”
“Do sompt’n! Meester! Meester!”
“Yuh crummy bastard, I saw yuh sneakin’—” The hunchback whirled, swung away on his crutches. “Fuck yiz!”
“Oy! Oy vai! Oy vai! Oy vai!”
“Git a cop!”
“An embillance — go cull-oy!”
“Don’t touch ’im!”
“Bambino! Madre mia!”
“Mary. It’s jus’ a kid!”
“Helftz! Helftz! Helftz Yeedin! Rotivit!”
A throng ever thickening had gathered, confused, paralyzed, babbling. They squinted at the light, at the outstretched figure in the heart of the light, tossed their arms, pointed, clawed at their cheeks, shoved, shouted, moaned—
“Hi! Hi down there! Hi!” A voice bawled down from the height. “Look out below! Look out!”
The crowd shrank back from the warehouse.
W-w-whack!
“It’s a—”
“You take it!”
Grab it!”
“Gimme dat fuck’n’ broom!”
“Watch yerself, O’Toole!”
“Oy, a good men! Got should—”
“Oooo! De pore little kid, Mimi!”
“He’s gonna do it!”
“Look oud!
“Dunt touch!”
The man in the black shirt, tip-toed guardedly to the rails. His eyes, screwed tight against the awful glare, he squinted over his raised shoulder.
“Shove ’im away!”
“Go easy!”
“Look odda!”
“Atta boy!”
“Oy Gottinyoo!”
The worn, blackened broom straws wedged between the child’s shoulder and the cobbles. A twist of the handle. The child rolled over on his face.
“Give ’im anudder shove!”
“At’s it! Git ’im away!”
“Quick! Quick!”
Once more the broom straws rammed the outstretched figure. He slid along the cobbles, cleared the tracks. Someone on the other side grabbed his arm, lifted him, carried him to the curb. The crowd swirled about in a dense, tight eddy.
“Oy! Givalt!”
“Gib’m air!”
“Is ’e boined?”
“Bennee stay by me!”
“Is ’e boined! Look at his shoe!”
“Oy, de pooh mama! De pooh mama!”
“Who’s kid?”
“Don’ know, Mack!”
“Huz pushin’?”
“Jesus! Take ’im to a drug-store.”
“Naa, woik on ’im right here. I woiked in a power house!”
“Do sompt’n! Do sompt’n!”
The writhing dipper was now almost consumed. Before the flaring light, the weird white-lipped, staring faces of the milling throng wheeled from chalk to soot and soot to chalk again — like masks of flame that charred and were rekindled; and all their frantic, gnarling bodies cut a darting splay of huge, impinging shadow, on dump-heap, warehouse, river and street—
Klang! The trolley drew up.
“Oyeee! Ers toit! Ers to-i-t! Oye-e-e-e!” A woman screamed, gagged, fainted.
“Hey! Ketch ’er!”
“Schleps aveck!”
“Wat d’ hell’d she do dat fer—”
“Vawdeh!”
They dragged her away on scuffing heels to one side.