Part 4

After a few hours the novelty began to wear off. He was high in the air, maybe a mile high, he estimated. So he pointed one wing at an angle and began gliding down, making a huge spiral as he descended. Halfway down, he reversed the cant of his wings and came down the rest of the way, flying backwards.

He landed right in the midst of a group of other angels who were seated around the Great Throne. Upon the throne sat the Great Lord God. Willie recognized him instantly because of the distinction with which he sat upon his throne and by the carefree tilt of his huge, bejewelled crown almost hiding one eye and by the angle at which the ten-cent cigar was cocked. Willie was a little frightened, and dazzled by the regal splendour of it all, but he settled down noiselessly to the ground, and was made to feel perfectly at home, by the informal greeting he received.

“I bet you want to hear some music, don’t you, Willie?” asked the Great Lord God and, without waiting for Willie’s reply, he continued, “Little David, play on your harp.”

“What shall I play, Great Lord God?” asked Little David.

“Play something calm and low, Little David,” said the Great Lord God. “Do not alarm my people.”

David struck a chord or two on his harp. It was beautiful. The mellow music floated straight to Willie’s heart. One or two of the other angels started humming with the music and, almost unconscious of where he was, Willie added his low, rich bass to the chorus:

“When dat big _Titanic_ sunk down in de sea, All de brass bands played ‘Nearer My God to Thee.’ Out on de deep blue ocean de people sleep In a cold wet cradle, three miles deep. It’s yo’ las’ trip, _Titanic_.”

After several verses Willie began to feel a personal sorrow for the passengers of the _Titanic_. The music stopped suddenly, and the Great Lord God commanded, “Little David, play something quick and lively. Let the skies rock with mirth. Let the heavens open wide. Let the stars and the moon shine out. Let my people shout with joy.”

And as soon as the command was issued all the angels began dancing and singing as Little David played:

“Two little babies a-layin’ in de bed, One of’m sick an’ de yuther mos’ dead. Sont fer de doctor an’ de doctor said, ‘Give dem babies some shortnin’ bread.’ So put on de skillet an’ thow way de led, Cause mammy gonter make a little shortnin’ bread.”

Several more songs followed and finally Willie began to tire of singing. The party broke up, the angels flying away in groups of twos and threes. Soon no one was left before the throne except Willie.

Willie felt slightly embarrassed there, with no one around except the Great Lord God. He figured he might be intruding or something, or that perhaps he’d better go out and fly some more. But as he was turning over the idea a tall, kindly looking angel, more strikingly handsome than any he had ever seen, strolled up and sat down familiarly by the side of the Great Lord God. At first Willie thought it was Cap’m Archie. There was kindness and understanding in his face, just like Cap’m Archie’s face. But it wasn’t Cap’m Archie. Cap’m Archie had no scars on his hands and feet as had this angel.

As he puzzled over the matter he faintly remembered a story his old mammy had told him about a man with scars on his hands and feet, and he recalled the lines of a song that Cap’m Archie used to make him sing:

“They nailed His hands and they rivet His feet, An’ de hammers wuz heard in Jerusalem street.”

Some way, Willie could not place him. But he felt much more at ease for his presence.

“What you thinking about, Willie?” the kindly angel asked. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself so much.”

Willie did not know exactly what to reply. He rummaged through his mind hastily. He had been entirely happy for ever so long, not a thing had gone wrong. Everybody had been so nice to him. The music had been beautiful and just the songs he liked to sing. His wings fitted perfectly and St. Peter had been wonderful. So had Jehu. And Cap’m Archie--he had given him everything he could think of and a heap he did not think of. Of course there was the matter of the cigar. He wanted to go to the gallows with a cigar in his mouth. But that wasn’t Cap’m Archie’s fault ... and, too, maybe Cap’m Archie had forgotten the cigar. He had so many things to think about. Willie concluded that if it were the cigar he would say nothing about it to the kind angel because he did not want to embarrass Cap’m Archie. He did not really want to go to the gallows with a cigar, anyway, he decided.

“But I did want ter make dat speech,” he concluded.

“What speech is that?” asked the kindly faced angel.

Willie explained in great detail, and the angel and the Great Lord God listened intently.

“But hit wa’n’t Cap’m Archie’s fault,” he declared.

“Whose fault was it, then?” demanded the Great Lord God.

“Hit mought er been--onderstan’, I ain’ s’cusin’ nobody,” Willie faltered, “but hit mought er been Ole Green Eyes. But I loves ev’ybody--him, too,” he added hastily.

“I know the scoundrel,” declared the Great Lord God. “He’s been plaguing me for years and years. But this is too much.” The brow of the Great Lord God clouded in anger and he shouted with a terrible roar, like seven peals of thunder, “Cherub, bring me a bolt of forked lightning that I may strike that man from the face of the earth.”

The cherub brought the lightning, and the Great Lord God was about to hurl it. But the kind angel touched his arm gently.

“I wouldn’t, Father,” said the angel. “He might not have understood that the speech was to have been the biggest thing in Willie’s life.”

The Great Lord God stayed his hand and turned upon the kind angel. “Of course he understood. That’s why he didn’t let him make it. He’s just low-down mean. I’ve put up with enough of it.”

“But,” insisted the kind angel, “it will do no good to strike him down with lightning. It would frighten many people. And it would start new arguments over religion and that would lead to controversies and they would lead to hatreds and hatreds lead to----”

“I’ve heard that speech a million times, Son,” said the Great Lord God, “and you needn’t go into details. I admit you are right,” and he handed the lightning bolt back to the cherub. “But,” continued the Great Lord God, “I will not let this thing pass.” His brow clouded in anger again. “I am the Great I am,” he roared, “and my commands shall be obeyed.” The kind angel sat meekly and argued no further.

“Willie Malone,” commanded the Great Lord God in a tone of thunder.

“Yassuh, Great Lord God,” replied Willie, jumping to his feet.

“You go right back down yonder and make that speech. He’s sitting in the jail office right now with Captain Archie. Now go and do my commands.”

* * * * *

Willie lost no time in getting to the jail. As he approached, he noticed a half-dozen Negroes--friends of his--standing in the rain about the big steel door entry to the lower cells. But he hurried by them with only a curt “hy-dy, boys.” The fact that they ignored him stung a little but he had no time to lose. He went straight to the office entrance.

The green-eyed man was seated at a table fingering five new ten-dollar bills. The coroner was scratching away with a pen on a big official-looking document. The editor and the two Gibbses were talking in low tones. Cap’m Archie was hunched down in his chair at his desk, looking at the floor. Willie stood a minute respectfully, hoping Cap’m Archie would notice him and inquire what he wanted.

But Cap’m Archie did not look toward him and Willie tried a scheme that had worked many times for him.

“Cap’m, suh,” he said, “don’ you want dis ole dirty flo’ swep’ up er somethin’?”

But Cap’m Archie acted as though he did not hear.

Willie cogitated. Maybe he was worrying about forgetting the cigar.

But as the thought came to Willie Cap’m Archie slowly reached to his vest pocket and drew out a single long black cigar and studied it intently.

“You got the mate to that’n, Sheriff?” Ole Green Eyes quit shuffling the new bills and directed his attention toward the cigar.

“Nope,” replied Cap’m Archie, “I ain’t got the mate to this’n.” And he tightened his grip on the cigar until he had broken and crushed it. “And if I did have it,” he added, “I’d damn well keep it.”

“No hard feelings, Sheriff,” offered Green Eyes. “I see you ain’t used to it. Cheer up. It’s just another nigger less.”

A scraping of feet in the jail hall at the side of the office attracted the attention of both Cap’m Archie and Green Eyes. Willie followed their gaze through the barred hall door and saw six Negroes carrying a long black box toward the big jail door. Behind the box marched Preacher Moore, directing and exhorting as he went.

“There he goes now--out of yer jail and out of yer life. It’s all over and yer duty’s done.”

Cap’m Archie squeezed the cigar tightly, crumbling it into tiny bits.

The green-eyed man essayed a cackling laugh. “And so’s mine,” he continued, picking up the five bills, “so I guess I’ll be going.”

Willie had been standing by in respectful silence since the white folks had indicated by ignoring him that they were too busy to talk to him. White people are that way, Willie had learned. Sometimes they will talk with you and laugh with you. And sometimes when they are busy they won’t pay any attention to you unless you get in their way or something. Then they will curse you. Willie knew how to get along with white folks.

But things were different now. He had business with Mister Green Eyes.

“Wait a minute, Cap’m, suh,” he addressed the green-eyed man.

Green Eyes stiffened, blinked his eyes, passed his hand across his forehead, and frowned. He stuck the money into his pocket quickly and grabbed for his hat.

“Wait a minute, Cap’m,” Willie pleaded. “I got ter make my speech.”

The green-eyed man turned pale and shut his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth and shaking his head as if in an effort to clear his brain.

“Sheriff,” he said with a great struggle for calmness in his voice, “I need a drink. I--I--I’m sort of nervous, I reckon.”

“There’s the doctor,” Cap’m Archie replied calmly, nodding toward the coroner.

“But, Cap’m, suh, wait,” interjected Willie, “lemme make my speech----”

The green-eyed man yelled and ran to the doctor.

“Get me a drink, Doctor!” he begged. “A drink! For God’s sake. I’m all shot to hell, Doctor. Get me a drink, quick.”

“What’s the matter, man?” demanded the doctor. “What is it?”

“That damned nigger, Doctor. I’m seein’ things. So help me. He wants to make a speech, Doctor----”

“Dat’s all right, Cap’m,” Willie insisted. “Hit ain’t no mean speech.”

“O-ww-w-w--Doctor,” screamed the green-eyed man. “There he is again.”

The coroner and Cap’m Archie caught the hangman and led him to a chair.

“Calm down, man,” said the doctor. “Your nerves are upset.”

“But that nigger, that damned nigger! I see him.”

“Well, he isn’t going to hurt you, man. He’s----”

“Nawsuh, I wa’n’t gonter hurt nobody,” Willie assured him. “I jes’ was gonter say a few words.”

The man struggled wildly, and it was only with the added strength of the two Gibbses and the editor that they succeeded in holding him in his chair. He was alternately crying and cursing, trembling weakly and fighting wildly.

“That damned nigger! I see him! I see him!” he kept shouting. “He wants to make a speech!”

“Hold him until I can fix a hypodermic,” ordered the doctor.

“I jes’ gonter make my speech,” Willie pleaded again in an effort to calm the green-eyed man. “I ain’ gonter do nothin’ but jes’ tawk.”

But instead of being soothed, the man became more violent and but for the utmost strength of four men, he would have escaped. They held him, though. Held him in the chair while his eyes glared in wild frenzy, his huge neck swelled even bigger, his face turned purple, and his breath came in short rasping gasps. “Git away, damned nigger. I see you. Ow-ww-ww!”

“I jes’ on’y got a few words I wanner say,” Willie began again. And after one lunge at the sound of Willie’s voice the man quieted down, and his eyes stared glassily at nothing, although his neck still bulged. The colour of his face changed to an ugly blue and his mouth dropped open and dripped frothy saliva. And while the green-eyed man sat limp in the chair Willie Malone completed his speech:

“I jes’ wanner say I ain’t got no hard feelin’s agin nobody an’ I don’ want nobody to has no hard feelin’s agin me. An’ I wants to meet you all in heaven.”

THE KILLERS

BY ERNEST HEMINGWAY

From _Scribner’s_

The door of Henry’s lunch room opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.

“What’s yours?” George asked them.

“I don’t know,” one of the men said. “What do you want to eat, Al?”

“I don’t know,” said Al. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”

Outside it was getting dark. The street-light came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.

“I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potato,” the first man said.

“It isn’t ready yet.”

“What the hell do you put it on the card for?”

“That’s the dinner,” George explained. “You can get that at six o’clock.”

George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

“It’s five o’clock.”

“The clock says twenty minutes past five,” the second man said.

“It’s twenty minutes fast.”

“Oh, to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat?”

“I can give you any kind of sandwiches,” George said. “You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.”

“Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.”

“That’s the dinner.”

“Everything we want’s the dinner, eh? That’s the way you work it.”

“I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver---”

“I’ll take ham and eggs,” the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.

“Give me bacon and eggs,” said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.

“Got anything to drink?” Al asked.

“Silver beer, bevo, ginger ale,” George said.

“I mean you got anything to drink?”

“Just those I said.”

“This is a hot town,” said the other. “What do they call it?”

“Summit”

“Ever hear of it?” Al asked his friend.

“No,” said the friend.

“What do you do here nights?” Al asked.

“They eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big dinner.”

“That’s right,” George said.

“So you think that’s right?” Al asked George.

“Sure.”

“You’re a pretty bright boy, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” said George.

“Well, you’re not,” said the other little man. “Is he, Al?”

“He’s dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. “What’s your name?”

“Adams.”

“Another bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?”

“The town’s full of bright boys,” Max said.

George put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.

“Which is yours?” he asked Al.

“Don’t you remember?”

“Ham and eggs.”

“Just a bright boy,” Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.

“What are _you_ looking at?” Max looked at George.

“Nothing.”

“The hell you were. You were looking at me.”

“Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max,” Al said.

George laughed.

“_You_ don’t have to laugh,” Max said to him. “_You_ don’t have to laugh at all, see?”

“All right,” said George.

“So he thinks it’s all right.” Max turned to Al. “He thinks it’s all right. That’s a good one.”

“Oh, he’s a thinker,” Al said. They went on eating.

“What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter?” Al asked Max.

“Hey, bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.”

“What’s the idea?” Nick asked.

“There isn’t any idea.”

“You better go around, bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.

“What’s the idea?” George asked.

“None of your damn business,” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen?”

“The nigger.”

“What do you mean the nigger?”

“The nigger that cooks.”

“Tell him to come in.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Tell him to come in.”

“Where do you think you are?”

“We know damn well where we are,” the man called Max said. “Do we look silly?”

“You talk silly,” Al said to him. “What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen,” he said to George, “tell the nigger to come out here.”

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?”

George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. “Sam,” he called. “Come in here a minute.”

The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it?” he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.

“All right, nigger. You stand right there,” Al said.

Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool.

“I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,” he said. “Go on back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.” The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been made over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.

“Well, bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say something?”

“What’s it all about?”

“Hey, Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.”

“Why don’t you tell him?” Al’s voice came from the kitchen.

“What do you think it’s all about?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think?”

Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.

“I wouldn’t say.”

“Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t say what he thinks it’s all about.”

“I can hear you, all right,” Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. “Listen, bright boy,” he said from the kitchen to George. “Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max.” He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.

“Talk to me, bright boy,” Max said. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

George did not say anything.

“I’ll tell you,” Max said. “We’re going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Andreson?”

“Yes.”

“He comes here to eat every night, don’t he?”

“Sometimes he comes here.”

“He comes here at six o’clock, don’t he?”

“If he comes.”

“We know all that, bright boy,” Max said. “Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?”

“Once in a while.”

“You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.”

“What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?”

“He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.”

“And he’s only going to see us once,” Al said from the kitchen.

“What are you going to kill him for, then?” George asked.

“We’re killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.”

“Shut up,” said Al from the kitchen. “You talk too goddam much.”

“Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Don’t I, bright boy?”

“You talk too damn much,” Al said. “The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.”

“I suppose you were in a convent.”

“You never know.”

“You were in a kosher convent. That’s where you were.”

George looked up at the clock.

“If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you tell them you’ll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?”

“All right,” George said. “What you going to do with us afterward?”

“That’ll depend,” Max said. “That’s one of those things you never know at the time.”

George looked up at the dock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street opened. A street-car motorman came in.

“Hello, George,” he said. “Can I get supper?”

“Sam’s gone out,” George said. “He’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“I’d better go up the street,” the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past six.

“That was nice, bright boy,” Max said. “You’re a regular little gentleman.”

“He knew I’d blow his head off,” Al said from the kitchen.

“No,” said Max. “It ain’t that. Bright boy is nice. He’s a nice boy. I like him.”

At six-fifty-five George said: “He’s not coming.”

Two other people had been in the lunch room. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich “to go” that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.

“Bright boy can do everything,” Max said. “He can cook and everything. You’d make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.”

“Yes?” George said. “Your friend, Ole Andreson, isn’t going to come.”

“We’ll give him ten minutes,” Max said.

Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o’clock, and then five minutes past seven.

“Come on, Al,” said Max. “We better go. He’s not coming.”

“Better give him five minutes,” Al said from the kitchen.