“And those?” her voice was bright with amusement. “Do you know what those are?”
He gaped at her. “A — a c-cow,” he stuttered. “In pictures I saw them. And — and when Aunt Bertha took me to the moving pitchers.”
“A cow, but a he-cow!” she laughed. “A bull. I don’t know whether you ever saw one even as an infant in Austria. They were monstrous — walls of flesh and strength.”
“Did he buy it?”
“Why yes, of course. When he bought the whip.”
“Oh! Is that why he got it?”
“Why yes, it reminded him of the time when he took care of cattle. You see,” she explained, “When your grandfather — his father — was overseer of the baron’s yeast factory, he put Albert in charge of the cattle. They fed them on mash — but you’ve already heard him speak of that.”
“What’s he going to do with them?” he asked after a pause.
“Hang them up of course. In the front-room.” Her eyes wandered to the picture of the corn flowers on the wall. “He couldn’t find a nail strong enough.”
He was silent. Somehow he couldn’t quite believe that it was for memory’s sake only that his father had bought this trophy. Somehow looking at the horns, guessing the enormous strength of the beast who must have owned them, there seemed to be another reason. He couldn’t quite fathom it though. But why was it that two things so remote from each other seemed to have become firmly coupled in his mind? It was as though the horns lying on the wash-tub had bridged them, as though one tip pierced one image and one tip the other — that man outstretched on the sidewalk, that mysterious look of repose in his mother’s face when he had come in. Why? Why did he think of them at one and the same time. He couldn’t tell. He sensed only that in the horns, in the poised power of them lay a threat, a challenge he must answer, he must meet. But he didn’t know how.
VII
WHEN David thought of the roof the next morning, he thought of it with so peculiarly selfish a joy that it kept him from thinking any further. The roof, that precinct in the sky, that silent balcony on the pinnacle of turmoil, demanded that what thoughts one had be had there. He culled them, sorted out what he would think when he got up there — he would allow them to blossom once he had climbed up the stairs. And a little while later he was there. What sounds from the street, what voices drifted up the air-shafts, only made his solitude more real, the detachment of his reveries more delightful.
He had found an old, weather-beaten box lying in the shady side of the roof-stair housing and he had been sitting there some time watching his thoughts uncurl when the creak of a door somewhere startled him. His first thought was that Izzy or Kushy were coming up again in order to see what they had seen before. And listening to the tread of feet on the squawking tin, he sat there rigidly, gritting his teeth in fury. What right had they to come up again, to torment him after he had found a little peace? Would they drive him out of every place he went, every retreat? He wouldn’t let them! He wouldn’t let them look down his air-shaft again. He’d fight, he’d scratch, he’d kick! Hidden behind the shed he listened a moment longer. Footsteps were followed by another sound — a hollow scuffing noise as of feet scraping up a fence. Then the tread again, but now no longer on the tin. Who was it? He heard a fluttering whirr. Faint taps. The slight, taut snapping of a stretched string. That couldn’t be them. What was it? Cautiously he peeped around the edge of the shed—
On the high lean-to that covered the stairway of the next roof but one, stood a boy, kite-string in hand, spindle rattling at his feet, and in the air a short distance from him, a rag-tailed, crimson kite ducked and soared. His blond hair, only a shade less fair than his brow, hung over his brow like a gold claw. He was snub-nosed; his cheeks had a faint flush and his eyes were blue. Teeth over lip, head lifted into light, he watched his kite intently, now paying out string, now jogging it to newer heights. It swayed slowly, tacking into upper air; there it steadied and drew away with sagging glint of string.
Watching him, David felt a bond of kinship growing up between them. They were both alone on the roof, both inhabitants of the same realm. That was a bond between them. But David could tell by looking at him, that the other had come up to the roof out of assurance — this was only another phase of his life. David himself had come up tentatively, timidly, because there was no other place to go. He suddenly began wishing he could know this carefree, confident stranger. But he had never seen his face before — that blond hair, those blue eyes didn’t belong to Ninth Street. How could he begin? Mentally he went over the various ways of striking up an acquaintance. He wished that he had something to offer him — the cookies he had thrown away yesterday or a bit of string. Longingly, he watched him.
With one hand poised as though the string’s steadiness depended on his balance, he felt behind him for the sloping floor under his feet and then sat down. He leaned back contentedly, whistling short fitful notes. David couldn’t make up his mind whether he ought to come out of hiding or content himself with merely watching the kite. He watched the kite. And suddenly stared—
It was hard to tell what street they were nearer to, Eleventh or Twelfth but he could see them clearly. There were two, perhaps three boys, and with bodies bent low, they were crawling over the roofs, now emerging now ducking behind chimney pots and skylights. Another few seconds and they were under the hanging arc of the kite-cord — although far below it. He glanced sharply at the owner of the kite. Unaware of any danger, he lay sprawled back, still whistling up at the sky. When David looked back to the distant ones, they had already risen from hands and knees and were vigorously twirling something in the air.
“Pssst!” He leaped out of hiding. “Pssst!” Not daring to speak, he made frantic motions of dragging in the kite-cord.
“W’at?” The other scrambled to his feet. “W’atsa matter?” And when David pointed vehemently in the direction of the distant marauders, “Cheesis! Dey’re sling-shootin’ it!” he shouted excitedly. “Cheesis!” And as fast as his hands could go, began yanking in the line.
The slings had been thrown. Both missed, fell, doubling back on the strings they trailed. They flung them up again. But as the kite came sailing home, it rose higher and higher — further from their range. At last the owner rested, babbling exultantly.
“Cheesis! See ’em! Dere dey go! Hidin’ back o’ dat! Bot’ of ’em! Didn’ get it dough. Lousy micks, nearly slung it! Waaa!” he screeched, thumbing his nose at the two distant figures. “Ya Irish mutts! Waid’ll I git ya, I’ll rap de piss odda ye!”
What abuse the others bawled back in reply was too faint to hear, but David could see them wagging their hands under their chins.
“Ha! Ha! Look at ’em!” the blond one yelled over to him. “See w’at dey’re doin’? Dey t’ink I’m a Jew! See ’em! Dopy mutts! Dopy mutts,” he yodeled again. “Dopy mutts!” And then glancing at his feet. “Chee! Looka my kite-cord — all twissed up! Hey, c’mon over, will ya? C’mon, give us a hand.”
David shook his head.